


An Insane World

by crowberry, drop_an_idea_on_a_page



Category: Justified
Genre: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-07 12:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 80,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4263474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowberry/pseuds/crowberry, https://archiveofourown.org/users/drop_an_idea_on_a_page/pseuds/drop_an_idea_on_a_page
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Insanity - a perfectly rational adjustment to an insane world." - R.D. Laing</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

_RPG!_

_RPG? Where?_

_At your eleven. Eleven!_

He searches building by building, window by window, feels the sweat dripping down and off his jaw, through his shirt. He's swimming in it and the sun is heavy on him, so heavy. Even the air is weighing him down. His vision is limited to a spot through his scope and he wants to look right or left but he's afraid to take his eye away and miss something; he's afraid to look in case his spotter is dead beside him. Then he can't see anything and he fights through the blackness, fights to see, and then he's inside, inside the building and there are voices, people talking. He wanders the hallway searching for them. He knows it. It's a school.

The walls in the school are blue like the sky, blue and covered in kids' drawings pinned up and on display. He's looking for someone and there, there he is in the back corner. Shit, he's skinny. His sneakers are untied, the lace broken, and there's a hole in the sleeve of his hoodie. He's carving his name into the desk with a knife _– T-i-m._ He's not supposed to have a knife; he'll get expelled if they find it. He tries to say something _,_ mouth open for words to come out, for a warning – _keep your head down, kiddo_ – but the smell is wrong and it distracts him. It's thick, dust and concrete and blood, and someone's screaming. They shouldn't be screaming like that. It's not allowed inside.

Six years old and here in his school with the blue walls and he's looking up like he's been caught. It feels like he's been caught.

But this is what dreaming feels like too, so he must be asleep, and it feels like a nightmare because he can't move and he needs to. They're counting on him. He can't move anything, not his arms or his legs; his whole body is weighed down and he can't help. He can't get away. He knows it all too well, this nightmare, the one where he's running but something's holding him and nothing's holding him. He fights against it, something.

His dad's in the room with him. He's wearing white, face distorted in the sunlight broken up by the blinds on the window. He's writing notes on a clipboard like he's important. _Like he knows anything at all._ He hates dreaming of his dad unless it ends with him putting a bullet between his eyes, the son-of-a-bitch. A hand reaches out from the clipboard.

"Don't touch me!"

"It's okay. Relax. It'll be okay."

His dad's a fucking liar.

"You fucking liar!"

His dad moves back, not so brave now.

"And nothing's showing in the tox screen?"

All the kids get their drawings put up on the wall because everyone matters, everyone is unique and perfect in their own way, and all their mommies and daddies come to look and see how special and wonderful they are. They look at the distorted and bright pastel rainbows and stars and kittens and ponies and they know.

His picture is there too, on the blue wall, but he doesn't want to look at it. He wants to wake up. He's so sick of this dream. His lungs are wheezing and his heart hurts and he struggles against it, pulling and twisting because giving up isn't in him, and sooner or later something has to break.

His dad turns away, the silhouette of his back blocking the light.

Coward.

"What, you can't look at me now, huh? Can't even _fucking look at me!?"_ He fights. He fights. He could take him, no problem.

"Nurse, lorazepam, 4mg. And somebody call upstairs."

He'll get expelled for bringing a knife to school and daddy will knock his two front teeth out for it but that's alright – they're baby teeth and he can spare them. The drawings are out on display and he doesn't have to look, he knows what he's done, a self portrait, little Timmy lying in the dirt with his limbs warped and broken and his face mangled and now everyone's going to see it, his very own contribution to the wall of special and wonderful. _Oh Jesus,_ what's that on the floor? He can't look away.

"Fuck."

_What is that? Is that…?_

There's a hand on his arm, on the skin between his shirt sleeve and the strap around his wrist, sudden and clammy, controlling, and he can't escape it. It makes him sick.

"Fuck you," he says, screams it out, says it like he means it.

"Easy now, just try to breathe. Everything'll be alright."

There's a sharp sting on the inside of his elbow and then he's waking up, or maybe not because the room is getting darker and he can feel his eyes sliding shut and his muscles loosening and he's melting, spreading out onto the earth like blood from a wound. He doesn't want to move anymore, can't remember why he was trying so hard to begin with. His dad's gone, dead like he should be. He sees him in the casket briefly, eyes closed. The blue wall is fading; he's fading.

* * *

Alex is hurrying through the hospital hallway. It's been one of those days.

"Dr. Alex Sullivan." A voice calls him back.

He turns, sees a familiar face, bright eyes, bright grin on a gray day.

"Hey Bridget," he says, grins back. He can't help it – her moods come out strong and slap you. "Why so formal?"

She takes his arm, falls into step with him, keeps pace effortlessly. "I heard your name called a while ago." She points up to the system. "It always gives me pause trying to reconcile the two – this beautiful baby face with the title, 'Doctor.'" She reaches over and runs her hand against the lay of his hair, messing it, flicks his cheek.

He swats her away, mildly annoyed. Normally he's just amused by her, but today it's all getting the better of him.

"So what was the call?" she asks.

"New patient. They wanted me down in Emergency. They'd already sedated him...delusional."

"You've got a full dance card," she says. "How are you holding up?"

"Uh…okay, I guess. Sophia's taking a lot of my time."

"And your new guy?" She's all business now. "What's it look like? Drugs?"

"I don't know. No. The tox screen came back clean. Some kind of psychosis?" He shrugs. "There's no history of…but…"

"But what?"

Alex shows her his clipboard, the Veterans ID card pinned at the top.

"Oh." She smiles support, waves and veers off into a doorway on to her own errands.

"Bridget, wait."

She stops, looks over her shoulder at him.

"I'd like your advice on this one."

"It's time to cut the umbilical chord, Junior." She smiles. "I'll stop by when I can."

* * *

It's fear, a feeling he knows well, so familiar it's bitter and dry on his tongue. It's holding him down and screaming at him to move. What can he do? He can't do both. He's waiting for orders and there's nothing but a buzzing – _fucking comm's not working again._ He growls to fight off the helplessness. It's so bright, the sun, and it seems to be coming from everywhere, reflecting from every surface and he can't open his eyes into it and when he does he only sees blurred shapes and he thinks he catches movement. The fear's there too. It's out there – he knows it – in that shadow, even in the bright light slicing at his eyes. The growl becomes a groan. He needs to find his team but he's afraid to call out because the fear is out there, and a threat, and they're listening.

_What if the enemy hears you?_

"Fuck off. Go away." It's a whisper from a little boy. Can't they leave him alone?

His hand is groping for his rifle, his helmet; he can't move it more than an inch or two. He tries the other hand but fear has a hold on it too; it has him good, holds him down hard like it did that fresh-faced private who wouldn't move even to save himself with the bullets hitting close. There aren't any bullets but the threat is a taste and a smell and it's crawling over him, over his chest and his legs and his arms and holding him down and he can hear it laughing at him. _This is how you die,_ it says. He has to move. If he stays in one spot, he's dead.

He tries to open his eyes again but the brightness pierces and he squeezes them shut.

The laughing becomes another voice but he can't make out the words. Pashto, maybe? Where's it coming from?

He needs to move.

Fear has a woman's voice. "I think you should go with the obvious, Alex. Trust your instincts until you get this under control. I understand why you started with it but don't continue the Lorazepam. It's too addictive – not recommended for PTSD-induced psychosis and it's a good guess that's what this is."

"I already switched it out. It's weird. He had another outburst after he was started on the sedative, fought against the restraints, so I opted for a 'Z' alternative. I'm wondering about paradoxical effects."

"Possible. How much has he had?"

"Hard to say. They gave him a dose downstairs, an injection, when he was brought in and I started an IV with it when we moved him up here...then interrupted it. I added a low-dose anti-psychotic at that point too."

"I think that's an excellent idea given his background. You're doing it all right as far as I can tell."

They're speaking English. A word or two slips through the buzzing. He tries to call out to them but his words are stuck in a dry mouth. What if they don't see him? What if he gets left behind? He has to move. But it's too late. They're gone and it's only he and the fear and a threat left. He tries to move again but he can't. Tears drain down his face from his eyes squeezed tight, frustration, hopeless, and he can't even move his arms to wipe them away and he's sure fear can see them.

* * *

Alex thanks Bridget who waves it away as she strides off down the hallway. He writes a note on his clipboard and stops to see the head nurse on the ward. He's discussing a drug regimen and putting the new patient on watch when an orderly appears at the door.

"Dr. Sullivan? The main desk is calling for you. They said if you have a minute they could sure use your help with something."

It's well past quitting time but some work days get stretched long and thin. Alex thinks about the rounds he still has to make, one last visit to Sophia's room before he packs up, another stop back with the new patient to see how he's responding to the added drug.

"I'll be fine with things here," the nurse says, reading the strain on the doctor's face. "I'll put someone in Mr. Gutterson's room for a bit. The folks out front wouldn't call for you if it wasn't important. Go on." She treats him like a kid, shoos him out the door.

Alex, distracted, lets her and walks quickly to the main floor. One of the administrators gets to him before he gets to the public area. She's clasping and unclasping her hands, flustered and agitated.

"I'm sorry," she says, breathless. "I know you're busy, but there's a man here, a US Marshal." Her eyes go wide. "He's asking about the young fellow we just admitted onto your ward. He's his boss, he says. He wants to see him. He's not taking no for an answer. Could you please just speak to him a minute? Try to calm him down at least. I don't know what to do with him."

Alex pauses before he pushes the door open, gathering up his courage. He can hear the voice before he sees the man, big, used to being in control and frustrated by his lack of it here, his authority useless. He's yelling.

"What d'you mean I can't see him? I'm his 'next of kin' or whatever you call it. I'm demanding to see him and I hate demanding."

Reading the name of the primary contact from the chart Alex steps into the waiting area. He tries to make himself larger than he is, tries to project a professionalism he isn't feeling today. He's expecting belligerent from someone with the title 'Chief Deputy' and so is surprised when he sees only desperation on the man's face, and worry. Alex drops his defenses and holds out a hand. "Chief Deputy Mullen? I'm Dr. Sullivan. I think I can help you. Can we, uh, talk in my office?" He gestures with the clipboard through the doors and down the hall.

Art Mullen turns hearing his name, ignores the hand and runs his eyes head to toe over the young man in the white coat, says angrily, "Great – a kid with a clipboard! What the hell is going on here? I've been waiting almost six hours for somebody to tell me something."

_Shit._ Alex swallows hard. "Sir, it would be best if you'd follow me so we can talk somewhere…in private."

Art glares then visibly wrestles with his anger, reins it in to serve his purpose. He allows himself to be led down the hallway. When the door shuts on the crowded waiting area he says, "Sorry for the scene back there but, dammit, I can't get any information from anybody about…" He waves his arms madly. "…about what the hell happened. And I'd like to see Tim – _now."_

"I understand your concern and I promise you that Deputy Gutterson is being well looked after." Alex spouts the lines, hating that he has to.

" _But…_ I feel a huge 'but' coming. I should give you fair warning – 'buts' just _piss_ me off."

Alex stops and faces the man who has twenty-some years and at least fifty pounds on him and he takes in the gun in the holster and the star on the belt and everything that the picture suggests about the man's career and his capabilities, and everything it suggests too about his new patient. He swallows hard again before he says the other thing that he has to say.

" _But_ I'm afraid you can't see him – not now."

The belligerent is surfacing and it's intimidating. Art speaks in a low voice, threatening disguised as reasonable. He leans in and Alex takes a step back.

"Wrong answer. Maybe we could try this again. Where's Tim? That kid is my responsibility and I'm not leaving until I see him."

"It'll probably be more than twenty-four hours before you can see him. At least. We've put him in a high-risk ward until we can assess what's affecting him. No visitors. I'm sorry."

"High risk? High risk of what? Has he got a virus or something?"

"No, uh, not a virus. He's not…aware. He's been violent and…"

"Violent? He was unconscious when I brought him in."

"Not unconscious, catatonic."

There are answers to some of Alex's questions in the confusion on Art's face. "Are we even talking about the same patient?"

There's a teetering pause. Alex has no idea how to explain this without stomping all over his patient-doctor confidentiality; he's unsure about what he can say. He pulls Tim's Veterans ID card from the clipboard and holds it out for Art to see, to confirm, then he states what's already public record, "Chief Deputy Mullen, it might help if I clarify something. Uh…I'm a psychiatrist."

The man's face falls as the implication hits. He closes his eyes. "Aw, shit."

"Can we _please_ take this to my office?"

Art nods, all the fight gone, and follows.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

This is a hospital, he's pretty sure, it smells like a hospital. He must be sick he's so tired, exhausted beyond possible and he's tipping over the edge into oblivion but she won't let him sleep. She won't stop screaming. It's a shrill, wet shriek – _because there's blood in her throat –_ that's somehow echoing between the walls of his room, in the ceiling. Tim rolls over in bed, hides his head under the pillow and draws his knees up to his chest but there's no blocking it out.

He gets up, legs wobbling dangerously, feeling only halfway conscious but pissed off now too and that gets him going and he shuffles out into the corridor.

The screaming is torturing him and he can't figure out where it's coming from. The sound of her echoes everywhere, through him and around him. He just wants to close his eyes. He can't focus, can't think, can't even walk straight – _her_ _leg is bent at an odd angle, bone sticking out –_ it's pathetic.

He whispers, _"_ Shut up! Shut the fuck up already!"

There are words mixed in, muddled with the screaming – _sobbing –_ but he can't make them out. It's such an accusing tone, heavy with revulsion and fear and it's getting louder, louder and painfully desperate. She's dying. _She's dying and she's terrified and she's angry_ – he's terrified and angry, and why isn't anyone else reacting to this?

There's a window leading to a fire escape at the end of the corridor. He tries wriggling the handle but it's locked. He looks outside at the rain and the dark and tries to find her. He can see a winding stairwell and a patch of grass below but she's not there, she's not anywhere. It makes no sense, nothing makes sense here and he's sick of it and something builds in him until it overwhelms him and he slams his knuckles against the metal grid covering the glass, just once, but it hurts enough to take his mind for a second, a blissful second, away from the shrieking and then he hears rubber soles pattering across the tile floor, approaching.

_This is such a fucking joke_ , he thinks and sobs once, quick and tight. He yells, "You don't have to come running all the way over here, alright? I'm fine."

The tallest of the nurses touches his shoulder. Tim tries to slap his arm away but his body won't obey him, dragged down and under and beyond his reach, and his arms are shaking with the strain of holding his rifle. His arms never shake. He's mesmerized by it, stares horrified at his trembling hands. How had he not noticed that before?

"Hey there, Tim. Let me take a look at your hand. You're bleeding."

_She's bleeding. There's blood everywhere. Not just hers._ "What?"

Tim is surrounded, cornered, his pulse speeds up because this isn't right. It's not right. Where is he? Where's his rifle? Why is he even here? He wants to ask but he can feel his eyelids closing out his thoughts, his shoulders sagging, his legs barely holding. He wishes he'd banged his head against the bars instead, maybe then he would've knocked himself out and all this shit would go away.

"Alright now, Tim. Come on. Let's get you cleaned up."

_Look what you've done!_

The nurse has this look in his eye now. Tim knows that look. He's worn it, worn it for countless assholes who've bitched at him and put up a fight when he's cornered them and pulled the cuffs out. They rarely go quietly to be hauled off to jail. And it's not right that it's directed at _him_ now, that look. He doesn't want a fight, he just wants some peace and quiet. He rubs his good hand across his face, through his hair. He's still shaking.

"I'll go, okay? Just… Jesus, I was just trying to sleep! I just wanna get some sleep." It hurts to talk, his throat filled with sand.

"Let's get this checked out first, then you can sleep."

"Are you hearing this? Aren't you gonna do something? Aren't you gonna at least… I mean, she sounds bad. Can't you…?" He puts his hands up to block his ears but he can still hear her. "I don't know… "

They don't have to answer – he already knows – they're just going to leave her like that, like she's not even there.

* * *

Alex spends most of the night tucked into his favorite corner booth at the bar across the street from his apartment, a book glued to the sticky table, but it's too dark to read and he ends up getting a little too drunk for a weekday. He wakes up an hour late the next morning and arrives at the hospital flustered with his shirt on inside-out but by some miracle with five minutes to spare. Bridget, his tether to reality in this crazy job, his mentor, is reading one of the magazines from the waiting room, sits like a cat by the coffee maker. He stalks past her and sinks down into a chair.

She grins at him, peering up over the brim of her glasses. "Good morning, Dr. Sullivan. Another gorgeous day at the loony bin." She looks more carefully. "Actually, you look more like a patient than a doctor today. Your shirt's on inside-out."

Alex glances down, huffs, slides a little lower in the chair and rubs his eyes. "I can't believe you just said 'loony bin.' I'm pretty sure I signed something when I started that prohibited me from using that phrase."

"That's what one of my patients calls it. It's so wrong but the way she says it, it makes my day and it helps keep her afloat." She shrugs, smiles huge. "I don't mind it. It reminds me of Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck. _What's up, Doc?"_

"God, you're in a good mood. I hate you."

"And you're looking especially jittery today. I'll bet you'd really like a cigarette – one, quick, little puff out by the parking lot to kickstart the day. Imagine the wonderful clicky sound of the lighter and the taste of that first drag of smoke…mmm." She drops her head back, mimes a satisfying suck and blow, long thin fingers holding an imaginary cigarette.

He thinks she looks like Cruella de Vil with a little Freudian imagery thrown in, tells her as much. "You're evil," he concludes.

"Just keeping it honest. You know I'd break your neck if you gave in. And I'd lose five bucks to Gabrielle and Frank, and that new orderly on ward three. They're all betting against you."

"You're all evil."

"Mwahaha." She slaps the magazine down loudly on the chair beside her. "So, what's eating you? Can't fix all the world's problems in a week yet? It's taken twenty years working here, but I think I've learned the trick."

"Oh yeah? What trick?"

She smiles warmly, world-weary. Enough of the teasing. "I pick my fights, Junior. I dismiss most of the world's problems on some technicality or other." She waves them away, unaffected, like they're air. "I only tie to my heart the ones I know I can win, or at least have a fair shot at."

* * *

There's a phone call he has to make before he starts his rounds. Alex promised the Chief Deputy of the Lexington Marshals Service that he'd get in touch each morning with an update and he thinks he'd better keep that promise. Chief Mullen is polite, informative, concerned; he gives Alex the impression that he has all the time in the world for this call, that it's important to him. Alex has as many questions for Tim's boss as the Chief has for Alex. They talk for half an hour today and Art tells him everything he knows about Tim's past. It's lean on facts and specifics, but it's enough for Alex to get an idea of what he's up against. He takes notes.

The men's ward is noisy when he finally gets there – one of Alex's patients, Andy, is the ring-leader of the hallway cacophony, yelling at the top of his lungs, yelling at the dogs again. He starts throwing chairs to chase them out. Alex helps one of the staff get Andy calmed down and back in his room with a glass of juice and a promise that they'll keep the dogs outside. The staff shares a laugh about his antics. Andy is a favorite, always amusing.

Alex heads back down the hall afterward, stops and turns when he hears more yelling _. Get the fuck out! Get the fuck out_ _!_ A nurse steps out into the hallway to investigate and he and Alex both realize the problem at the same time. The Marshal, Alex's newest patient, is up and out in the corridor, has toed open the door to the room next to his and is peering in and frightening someone. The yelling chases Tim away from the door and he freezes, back against the wall, rapid breathing, trembling, and Alex approaches, cautious but openly. He keeps in Tim's line of sight and tries to translate the emotion on his face but all he recognizes is anxiety and he expects that. Tim's holding his arms in an odd way and Alex realizes that he's cradling a rifle, or at least he thinks he is – left arm supporting the barrel, right arm hooked over the stock and trigger finger straight across the guard.

"Tim?" Alex stops just shy of an arm's length. "What's going on, Tim?"

Tim holds up a hand, finger to his lips. "I can't find the team. I heard mortar rounds. What happened?" His voice is a whisper, rough. He looks rough. He drops his hand, head snaps down. "Where's my rifle?" His eyes dart nervously around the hall and he crouches suddenly, scared, vulnerable.

Alex crouches down with him. "Nobody here has a rifle. You can't have rifles in here."

"We gotta take this fight somewhere else. There's kids. Didn't you see them? Shit, where's my rifle!"

"There aren't kids here, Tim, and no fighting either. That was just the guys horsing around. Everything's good. Do you want to come with me and I'll show you?"

But Tim doesn't hear him, lost in his head. He's fixated on one thing. "I don't have my rifle."

"You don't need it, Tim. You're safe here."

"I don't have my rifle. Where's my rifle?" Tim rises, pushes past Alex and starts looking around on the ground. "Fuck. I didn't let go of it. I didn't. I didn't let it go. _Where is it?"_

"Tim…"

Alex reaches for him and Tim spins on the spot, frantic now, teeters and stumbles against the wall, careens away from him. A nod to the nurse and he disappears down the hall while Alex tries to corral Tim back into his room.

Tim has both hands on his head, horrified. "Shit, man, my rifle. Where's my rifle?" He's yelling.

The nurse jogs back with a syringeful of stronger sedative. Alex gets in front of Tim, still shuffling around the walls searching, distress etched deeply. He puts a hand on Tim's shoulder to stop him and does a mental scramble for details from his conversation with Art Mullen. He tries to speak to the delusions.

"Hey, Sergeant, they found it. They've got your rifle. You didn't lose it. The guys have it. They're playing a joke."

Tim's face switches in an instant, fear to confusion, "What?"

The nurse takes advantage of the distracted and sluggish patient, deft and fast hands with a needle, steps back out of the way quickly and nods.

Tim turns and looks at him, bewildered. "What're you doing?" he says then slides along the wall, then down the wall. "Fuck…" He looks up and Alex sees betrayal in the blue. "What the…?"

They help Tim to his feet and into his room. He tries to fight them but there's nothing for him to fight with, limbs like toys, no weapon, no rifle.

Alex sits for a few minutes and talks to him after they settle him on his bed. Tim is asking repeatedly for his rifle, asking for his team, asking for his rifle, fighting still against the weight of sedation, eventually silent. Alex repeats assurances – _the team is fine, they're all sleeping, your rifle is close by, no need to worry, you didn't lose it, it's fine, your team is fine._

When the calming and empty words are no longer necessary he sits a moment or two longer, quietly. He can't help making comparisons. They're the same age, almost. He tries to imagine Afghanistan and the sound of mortar rounds hitting. He can't put words to it; he can't speak that language, the language of ferocious and impersonal violence. He wonders if even someone who's been there could put words to it, but that's what they have to try and do, he and this patient. He has little doubt that Afghanistan is where they have to go to get to the core of this trauma.

If there were a crash course available on the culture of uniforms and battle-ready mentality, he'd take it. He remembers a nurse on the open ward with a military past, ponders buying him a beer after work one day soon, today or tomorrow, to pick his brain.

Tim's still twitching, mumbling. Alex makes a mental note to switch him to a stronger anti-psychotic. Reality may be a bitch but in this case he suspects the dreams are worse.

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

It's dark. It's dark because his eyes are shut tight. Tim has no idea what the rest of the world looks like. His is dark because he wants it that way. It just feels better and nothing is going to make him open them. But then there's breathing, and his eyes snap open, his heart sprinting; he's aware suddenly that he's not alone. His hands are covering his face and he spreads his fingers just enough and tries to squint through them. There's nothing but bright light, black spots dancing in it. He thinks if this isn't the worst fucking hangover in the history of alcohol then he's in some serious trouble.

He tries to remember something, but there's a relentless pounding in his head and every other part of him aches. It seems as though the entire world is tied to him, everything in it, and he can't bear the weight of it. He figures he's too tired to be awake. He can't ever remember being tired in his dreams though, so…so maybe he _is_ sleeping off the mother of all benders. And maybe this is the dream he has sometimes right before he's really awake, that dream where he hears the alarm go off and he gets up and takes a piss and makes coffee and brushes his teeth and then he wakes up for real and he hasn't left the bed.

Noise again, close. He's _not_ alone.

The skin on the back of his neck tingles. He makes a careful move to sit up but is stopped before he can lift his head by the flood of pulse roaring in his ears like fireworks. Like gunfire. Bombs. Whole cities are being blown right off the face of the earth, gone in a cloud of dust. That's what it's like.

_Fuck._

Tim blinks through the intrusive glare until it fades into gray, into daylight, storm clouds and rain. He feels horrible, curls in on himself. He can't think, too tired.

_Oh, fuck._

This is definitely not his apartment. Did he pass out somewhere stupid? Maybe he's sleeping it off in a holding cell.

_Shit. What's Art going to say?_

Through the glare there's a silhouette, a blurry shape standing by the window, shifting from one foot to the other, erratic, skewed.

"You're new," the silhouette says, a man, his voice stabbing into Tim's head. "It's okay. You gotta listen though…"

Tim rubs his face, dull and slow, ends up staring at his palms. He mutters a curse, tongue feeling thick in his mouth, dust dry. He doesn't recognize his own voice. The man by the window takes a step closer, more detail now, his grin grotesquely wide and his eyes bulging out from his skull.

_A clown._

"You're all tucked away now, new guy, aren't ya? How's it feel? This room is bright. Mine's alright, but they put something in the mirror."

He's standing right out in the open and it pisses Tim off for some reason but he can't figure out why.

"Hey, get the fuck down," he hears himself say, sharp and annoyed.

The anger is sudden, surprising him, but it feels good, better than tired and he wants to keep it, wants to use it to get up, something, anything. The clown's still talking though and the jumble of words gets in the way of Tim's anger and now he's slipping back.

"No, listen…you _can't_ _tell_ when they're looking, do you understand? Did you know they used to lobotomize people for being sad? I don't think they do that anymore. Someone could be watching though and that's not just in here, that's _everywhere._ I'm only telling you this 'cause you're new. Why are you here anyway?"

" _Jesus fuck,_ would you just shut the fuck up?" The words rake across Tim's throat.

The man takes a few steps to the side, hunkers down a little, says, "Yeah, yeah, sure." He's shifting again from one foot to the other. "What's your name?"

Tim peers at him from behind his hands, gets more details – tall, lanky, big beard, pearly white and spit-shiny teeth. He struggles to remember the face, to place it. He wants to recognize it so something will make sense. But there's nothing. He closes his eyes again. He wants to be alone, wants to sleep.

There's a new sound. It's familiar. He should know what it is.

"Do you hear that?" the clown says.

_Footsteps._

"It's spaghetti and meat sauce today. Bet they won't let you have any coffee, right? Pricks, huh? But some of them are alright."

"What?"

It's closing in, the sound, faster and louder. Tim feels he should get up. There's something he should be doing. He needs to get up. But the pain in his head keeps him still and then he can't breathe either. _He can't breathe._ What the hell has he been drinking?

_Paint thinner?_

The clown sways in closer and leans down, breath like chemical rot. "Listen, it's important. You never know when they're watching so you always gotta stay in line, alright? Don't do anything stupid like let the dogs in. It's a trick. You think they're not looking because you can't see them but you never know so it's like they're looking _all the time_."

Tim covers his ears, mumbles, "Shut up. Just _shut up…"_

_Shut up._

The footsteps are right outside now, there's the creak of a door and a new set of sounds – busy clattering, echoes, someone laughing, someone else crying. Tim keeps his head tucked away, thinks he'll fight if he has to. He'll fight.

It shouldn't be this hard to breathe.

A new voice floats over, deeper and softer. "Andy, you are _not_ supposed to be in here. Come on now. Out you go." Then it's closer, "Hey, Tim. Are you alright? How are you feeling today?"

There's a hand on his arm. He flinches from it and it disappears.

"My head hurts." Christ, he sounds pathetic. He thinks about his dad, waits for the scolding. _Buck up. You'll live._

"I'm sorry, Tim, for the noise. We'll get you something to help with the headache, make you feel better. Would you like some water?"

The sympathy gets through to a neglected place. Tim feels like a kid again. He nods a 'yes' but he's not sure it made it out there. He's slipping again, his mind aware of something that's just out of reach, an afterthought, a missing piece. He chases it but he can't get to it, gives it up and gives in. Pathetic.

And the clown voice is back, acidic, boring into his brain, drilling through flesh and bone. "Alex, hey, Alex, listen…" It's shrill, giddy. "Did you know that they used to put people in insulin comas for being crazy?"

The softer voice again. "You can't just walk into other people's rooms like this, Andy. It's not alright."

"Yeah, but did you know that though?"

"Yeah, I knew that. Let's go talk outside. It's almost lunch time."

"Spaghetti – but I'll need some ketchup 'cause I can't have the meat sauce. Maybe you shouldn't bring it in here at all, the meat, 'cause of the dogs. They can smell it, you know. Last time – spaghetti – they got in, remember? Hey, I wanted to talk to you. Hey, Alex, are you listening? It's something I was thinking about the other day. They used _ice-picks_ , did you know? For the lobotomies…"

Tim groans and slides down in the bed, pulls the covers over his head. There's a hand back on his arm, only for a second, a brief squeeze. "Sorry, Tim. I'll, uh…have someone bring you something for the headache."

And then it's quiet, _finally,_ and he falls asleep.

* * *

Sophia still refuses to talk. She sits on her bed, eerily still, the bruises from her latest suicide attempt strikingly blue around her neck, and stares hollow-eyed and vacant into space. Her dry lips are cracked and split. She won't eat, she won't drink. Alex looks at her helplessly, the specter under his care, and it makes him cold.

"You have choices, Sophia."

There's a tray on the table beside the bed, soup and bread, it smells like celery. It reminds Alex of being young, home, he and his sister eating canned soup, cream of celery.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and waits – waits for something to snap, to break apart or slide into place, something. She barely even blinks. _You have choices._ The skin on the back of his neck prickles. She's choosing to die and he can take that away from her. They'll shove a tube up her nose and into her stomach and force the food into her and it'll be degrading and it'll hurt. He presses the palm of his hand into his eye. He can hear her slow, raspy breathing; her body sounds hollow. He feels hollow. He's not ready to make this choice. Not yet.

He's afraid for her; he's afraid for himself. He worries he's not cut out for this.

He remembers it's Friday and checks his watch; it's after six and he needs a weekend and this one is all his. He stands up and leaves abruptly, suddenly needing to get out. He chews a lip as he walks quickly through the hallway and out the doors. A terse, "Have a good weekend," for the staff then he beelines it for some morale boosting.

Alex knocks before he pokes his head into Bridget's office. She's sitting by the window, reading another waiting room gossip magazine.

"Alex, my dear, save me from this depression. I'm heartbroken. Brad and Angelina are fighting again."

He stops in the doorway. "Um…"

She laughs, waves an arm around coolly dismissing the celebrity drama, and says, "Dinner at my house – Saturday night – because I know you don't have anything better to do and you look like you need cheering up in the form of some intellectually-stimulating conversation."

He snorts.

"And alcohol," she adds, sweetening the deal.

Alex flops down into a chair, plunks his boots on the table beside a box of tissues, kicks it to the side. He doesn't keep one in his office, feels it too presumptuous – not everyone needs a good cry.

"Saturday." He draws the word out, pretends to think about it. "Gosh, I can't make it. I've got an evening of excessive drinking and anonymous sex planned."

She humphs, says, "How novel," and turns the page of her magazine.

Bridget has turned dinner invitation planning into an art form, _an expressionist art form,_ Alex thinks and forces a grin down before she catches him and gets smug about it. Of course, he'll be there – he wouldn't miss it and she knows it. Last month, she had two members of the online Freudian society, a neurobiologist from Princeton, a Kentucky minister and Frank, their boss, all neatly placed around her dining room table. She made the introductions and then sat back with a glass of wine and watched the show. It was a fun night.

She shuts the magazine abruptly, loudly, interrupting his thoughts. "Saturday night, seven sharp. You'll be there, Junior. I'll save you from your wicked ways."

"Yeah, alright, I'll be there. Are you changing the players this time?"

"I don't know yet. But I think I might add a sociologist. The argument last time could have used a bigger picture perspective." She actually sounds serious. "I'll see who's available. Have you ever met Michelle? She's one of the suits in administration downstairs."

"No. She hot?"

She glances at him, a corner of her mouth twists up. "Mm-hmm."

Alex blinks once, twice, says, "I should probably get your definition of 'hot' before I get my hopes up. Is she young or youngish?"

Bridget smiles.

"You do a good imitation of the Cheshire Cat," he says, stands to leave.

"Got any plans tonight?" she asks.

"Sleep." He stops again at the door. "It gets better, right?"

"It gets _easier."_ The enigmatic smile is back. "You win some; you lose some. Hang in there so you can see for yourself."

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

Tim wakes in a panic, struggles to sit up, lungs heaving, heart pounding. Looking around the room he tries to remember where he is but all he can remember is being held against his will and he wonders who found him, who freed him. The room is sparse, institutional, a hospital. He's been in enough of them to recognize the utilitarian décor, the sickly odor. He runs his hands down his chest and moves his legs wondering where he was injured, then he swallows against a dry throat. There's water in a plastic glass on the table and he reaches for it, drinks it down.

Getting up is a struggle. He fights with the blankets, fights with his body to do his bidding. When he has his feet on the floor it takes him a moment to get his balance and trust his limbs. He takes a couple of steps and frowns at the cold from the tiles against his bare feet. He wishes for socks, for something warm to eat. He feels empty. It motivates him to explore.

There are three doors in the room. One goes to a hallway that he can see through a small window at the top. He moves slowly and cautiously away from the bed, shaky, and checks the next door – a closet with some clothes, his. He pulls them out and sets them on the bed and changes and it feels good, sweats and a t-shirt and socks and his favorite worn hoodie that he can't bring himself to throw out. He stands hugging himself when he's done, fistfuls of the hoodie in each hand where it bulks out around his thin frame, enjoying the feel of something familiar. It grounds him. When he's feeling a bit more put together, glued and tightened, he continues his exploring, turns to the last door.

The last door leads to a bathroom. He steps up to the sink and looks at himself in the mirror. The face that looks back needs a shave and some sleep and it raises its eyebrows and Tim tries a smile and it smiles back. He turns on the tap and splashes water on his face then eyes the shower but rejects the idea. It seems like too much work right now and he's already tired.

Standing with his hand on the door to the hallway, he feels the anxiety rustling, whispering fears – _what if it's locked? –_ but it opens when he pulls on it. The corridor beyond is empty, lightly lit and quiet. He pauses in the doorway, drifting, wondering what to do with his freedom, wondering how long he was out. He can't remember getting here. He can't tell even where time starts to blur. It's too hard to focus. What the hell happened?

Shuffling down the hall to the left, he decides to look for someone to answer his questions, hopes for something to eat too, listening to his stomach complain. He reaches the end and tries the door there but it's locked. There's a lone chair against the wall and he sits down on it, just to rest a minute. The sky outside that he can see through the doors to a window is dark, dark grays and blacks and more grays, stormy. No wonder he's tired – it's probably the middle of the night. Tim's eyes start to slide shut and he jerks awake as his head falls forward. He stands unsteadily, reorients himself and wanders down the hall the opposite way.

The hospital odors in the corridor are stronger than in his room. They remind him of war – sweat, vomit, piss, shit, blood and fear – but then there's a pervasive scent of industrial cleaner that sits on top and tries to hide the rest and does a poor job. In war it was cordite and gun oil and diesel on top. He decides as he drifts along that he prefers the war smells, the cordite and gun oil and diesel, to the ocean breeze or lemon scent or pine fresh or whatever they're using here. He hears something, drops his hand to his hip and misses having his holster there and there's no rifle strap over his shoulder either. He runs his tongue nervously over his dry lips and moves on cautiously.

Near the far end, the hall opens on the left to a counter, the nurses' station, with a few chairs over to one side. Someone is moving the chairs and peering behind them. Tim stops and watches. The man is in bare feet, he's moaning incoherently, crying.

"Hey, buddy," says Tim, raspy words. "You okay?" He looks around for a nurse, peers over the high counter.

The man turns and holds out his hands, pleading. He walks toward Tim and when he's close enough he takes hold of Tim's arm and pulls. "Help, please. I can't find him. I don't know where I left him."

Tim nods. He's dealt with people like this often in his job – drug addicts, drunks, the occasional mental disorder. The general rule is to speak to them calmly, don't get them riled.

"No problem, buddy. Let's see if we can find someone who knows where he is."

The man drops his grip, sobs, "Nobody knows."

"Let's go find someone, alright? I'm new here, so I don't know the place very well…" Tim tries to ignore the mucus running in a stream from the man's nose. "I'll just look over here."

Tim points past the counter, walks to the double doors and pulls but they're locked too. He's locked in. He turns in a circle looking for another exit but there isn't one and the anxiety starts to whisper again. The panic grows from the inside out and a throbbing starts behind his eyes and builds. Bringing up his hands he presses them hard against the sides of his head trying to stop the hammering, slow the rhythm of the blood drumming against his temples. He feels like he's going to throw up and his vision blurs.

A door opens then and Tim hears voices and the crying man moans louder and louder behind him.

"Jesus," he whispers, wrestling to get control of his fear but he can't. He can't find an edge to grab.

"Tim." A hand settles gently on his shoulder and he tries to focus on it, tries to decide if it's a threat that needs action. It's attached to a woman looking concerned, studying his face intently. "Tim, are you alright?"

"Jesus, my head hurts. Why is everything locked?"

She leads him to a chair and settles him on it and he drops his head into his hands as she rubs his back. He's so grateful when the moaning fades, disappearing down the hallway and behind a door. The panic ebbs.

"You found your clothes," she says softly.

"Yeah."

"Are you looking for something?"

"No, just… He was. He was looking for someone. I was just looking for someone to help him. I don't think he's all there."

"That was nice of you to try and help him. Can I get you anything? Are you having trouble sleeping?"

Her voice is so soft, so calm. He huffs thinking that she's talking to him exactly the same way he was talking to that crazy man.

"What's funny?" she asks.

"You. You're talking to me like I'm crazy."

She chuckles. It's beautiful, low, soft too.

"You're not crazy. But I think I am – agreeing to do someone's night shift. Are you okay now?"

"Yeah, I'm okay. I'm sorry."

"For what?"

He has no idea. "Can I get something to eat if it's not a problem? I'm really hungry."

"I'll bet you are. Hold on." She walks away and he hears her talking then she comes back and pulls a chair up beside him. "Do you remember who I am? We've spoken before, but you might not remember."

He looks up at her face; he can focus now. Maybe she looks familiar but he shakes his head, no.

"I'm Martha," she says. "I'm the head nurse on this ward. You seem more yourself tonight. What do you remember?"

He thinks about it. "Not much. Was I hurt?"

"I'm not a doctor, Tim, but I'd say you were, only…a while ago. I think you're just feeling it now, is all."

Another woman walks up to them and hands a glass to Martha who says thank you and dismisses her and then hands the glass to Tim. "It's banana chocolate – my favorite of the flavors they've got here. It's got some protein powder in it though so it's not as good as you'd get at a diner. Unfortunately the kitchen's closed and this is all we've got till morning. Still, it'll fill the void."

Tim takes the glass and sips at it. It's not bad, not bad at all. He finishes it while she watches.

"Tell me your name," says Martha.

He frowns at the question. "Tim Gutterson."

She nods. "And what do you do for a living?"

"I'm a Marshal – a Deputy Marshal with the US Marshals Service." He gives her a worried look. "I should call my boss."

"It's okay. He knows you're here."

He tries to think about it, to understand, but it's work. "God, I'm tired."

"Do you think you can sleep?"

"Yeah. Thanks for the milkshake."

"Not a problem." She helps him to his feet and down the hall to his room, gets him settled. "We'll bring you a good breakfast in the morning."

Tim closes his eyes. It feels good to lie down. The bed is comfortable.

* * *

The next morning Tim asks a nurse if he can get a razor – he wants to shave. She comes back moments later with everything he needs: a blade razor, new in the package, shaving cream. She walks into the bathroom, deposits it all on the counter and stands back in the room, arms crossed.

"Uh, thanks," says Tim. He waits for her to leave.

"Well?" she snaps. "I haven't got all morning."

"You can go. I know how to shave." She makes him angry the way she looks at him like he's stupid.

"Fine." She collects the items again and storms out.

Later Martha, the head nurse, knocks at his door, brings him back the razor. She smiles, apologizes for the nurse that morning, makes excuses for her, how busy it was earlier, then sits down on a chair in his room and tells him to leave the bathroom door open. "Please," she says kindly.

It's an odd request. Tim thinks about it, thinks about the nurse that morning. Slowly, a realization forms, a cold dread seeping through his thoughts collecting evidence. He knows this routine. He's visited guys in places like this. He steps to his bed and sits down, sets the razor beside him on the blanket and looks at it. He wets his lips.

"Ma'am, how did I get here? This is a Psych Ward, right?"

"Yes, it is."

"What did I do? What happened?"

"Nothing you need to worry yourself about."

Tim is getting agitated. "Can you just tell me, please?"

She folds her hands in her lap. "Tim, your psychiatrist has a game plan for your recovery. I'm not allowed to interfere without consulting with him first."

"Psychiatrist." Tim's voice breaks over the word. "My recovery? From what?"

"You need to talk to Dr. Sullivan about that."

"Well, when can I talk to him?"

"He's back soon, day after tomorrow, and will want to see you then. I could get the doctor on staff today but it'd be better if you waited for Dr. Sullivan. You need some rest anyway. He's been in to see you often but you've been…"

Tim tries to remember back, the last few days. There are snippets but he can't separate anything from what can't possibly be real.

"I've been what?"

She doesn't shy away from his gaze, she just moves on, so calm and reasonable that he can't be angry with her.

"Let's just handle today. Do you want help shaving? I'm pretty good at it."

Tim can't move on just yet, looks back at the razor.

"Are you afraid of me, of what I'll do with a razor?"

He appreciates that she appears to be giving it some serious thought.

"No, I'm not afraid of you, though maybe I should be – you being a Ranger and a Marshal and all." She softens the remark with an honest smile. "Tim, we have rules on this ward for a reason. I tell you, I've seen it all in here, been surprised often by what people will do. But I'll make a prediction in your case – I think you'll be fine. I've been wrong before though and I'm not willing to gamble your life on my instincts. Some people get very upset when they put two and two together like you've just done. So, I'm a little afraid _for_ you. Do you understand? Recovery can be difficult at times, whether the hurt is physical or emotional. Physical is often easier to deal with because everyone can see it for what it is. This kind of hurt, though, what you're going through…" She shrugs. "Be patient with yourself. Let it happen."

"It's not like I have much choice. You've got me locked in here."

"Oh, now, don't kid yourself. Everyone has choices." She's serious.

Tim considers her statement, considers his own experience in the matter and that's no small thing – he's seen enough guys break down one way or another. He decides not to think about it anymore today, picks up the razor and steps into the bathroom. In the end, he needs her there anyway – his hand shakes too much to do a decent job so she sits him in a chair and does it for him.

"Feel more like yourself?" she says when they're done.

"A little bit."

"My sister's boy was in Iraq," she offers, collects the shaving things. "My name's…"

"Martha," he finishes for her. He remembers her from last night.

She seems surprised and pleased. "Yes, Martha. Come get me if you need anything," and she bustles out the door.

* * *

 


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

Alex drops by the hospital on the weekend, Sunday morning wakes him up from a nightmare starring Sophia and he can't shake a bad feeling. He drives in after trying to talk himself out of it over coffee. The first thing he notices when he walks into Sophia's room is that it's cold – it's an old part of the building, drafty – then it's Christina, the nurse, who gets his attention. She's attached to her cellphone in the middle of a hushed conversation about restaurants. There's a rule against bringing your phone onto this ward. She looks up, caught, surprised to see him, and flashes a bright bleached smile as her excuse.

Sophia's lying down, eyes open and fixed on the ceiling. She's been pulling at her clothes. He's seen her do it before, as if she's trapped and choking. The buttons on her cardigan are torn open and the shirt is tugged down and stretched out exposing her pale chest. Her skin is almost blue in the harsh light, covered in goosebumps. She looks frail, on display for the vultures. It's undignified. Alex feels Christina's shame for her.

Christina acts like she hasn't even noticed. "Dr. Sullivan. You don't mind about the phone call, do you?"

He takes a few seconds to breathe before he speaks. "Take a break, Christina. I'll stay for a while." She could at least make sure the patients don't freeze, he thinks, angry. He approaches the bed when she leaves, stands staring like he's at the casket at a viewing.

"Hey, Sophia. How are you doing today? I, uh…I'm just gonna fix your clothes, okay? You look cold."

He's uncertain about touching her, uncertain about her boundaries, even looking at her like this feels like a violation. He buttons her cardigan and pulls a blanket up over her then he slumps down into a chair and just sits for a while before he flips through her blood test results.

"This can't go on, Sophia. You know that, right? I want the decision about what's going to happen to be yours, and it _can_ be, but I…I can't let this go on much longer."

He tells her about the nasogastric feeding, how it works and how it'll feel, why it needs to happen if she continues to refuse to eat. She doesn't say anything; she doesn't move. Alex gets restless facing her inactivity, gets up, paces then leaves to hunt down the head nurse, set a few things straight about Sophia's care.

Martha's in the men's ward, standing firm in the middle of the chaos, loud wailing drowning out the snuffling and muttering and there's an intrusive stink of vomit. Still, she has a smile for him, says, "Aren't you off this weekend?"

His anger is at the surface and he brushes aside the greeting. "I don't want Christina near her anymore."

Martha takes a deep breath, folds her arms. "I know. I hear you. But if she's on shift… I'll do what I can, Dr. Sullivan, but I can't be everywhere."

Usually it's 'Alex' – if she calls him 'Doctor' then it's business and not up for argument. It's not fair but it's not her fault. He backs down. "Martha, I appreciate everything you do on this ward. You know that, right?"

Martha's smile is sympathetic. She knows.

"I should be licking your shoes," he jokes.

"Now, stop," she says, but she's pleased and wants to say something to cheer him up too. "I think you need to get Tim Gutterson off this floor."

Alex's shoulders slump. "Is he giving you trouble? I'm worried he's going to hurt somebody with his training."

"No, no, you misunderstand. You haven't had a chance to see him when he's lucid and awake. He's not been difficult. He stays in his room and who could blame him. He got himself up Friday night and dressed and was trying to help one of the other patients in the hall when I found him. He hasn't had a serious episode the last 48 hours, just a little anxiety. I helped him shave. He asked."

"Really?" Alex's face lightens. He's been so preoccupied with Sophia he hasn't had the time to pay proper attention. "That's…that's good."

"I think he needs some quiet. Move him soon."

As if on cue the alarm for the men's ward goes off and the two of them hurry down the hall to help.

After the problem has been dealt with and things quiet down, Alex goes looking for Martha to finish their conversation. She's not in the hallway, not at the nurses' station. He checks each room and finally finds her kneeling at the foot of the Tim's bed. Tim's there too, sitting on the floor – Alex can see his arms holding his head protectively while Martha talks to him. Tim drops his hands eventually and looks at her and says something. It makes her smile. She reaches out and pats his knee.

Alex leaves them alone, waits in the hall until Martha comes out then follows her to her desk to fill out the paperwork to have Tim moved.

Martha nods her approval when he signs, then shoos him out the door again, tells him to get out, go home and enjoy the rest of his day off.

* * *

Tim's heart starts to race again, fighting against his drugged limbs, pushing for action. He's lying down when he hears the noise. He sits up slowly, slides his butt across the bed to the edge and it's such an effort. Lessons from sniper school, in-class time, come to mind and he thinks _the friction coefficient must be pretty high_ _for my ass dragging on this bed_. He thinks a laugh too but like the rest these last two days it doesn't make it out of his head, like a laugh-track playing on a set. He manages to make it off the mattress just as the door opens.

The sound of feet in the hallway is what got him moving. He's never sure if they're heading to his room, those feet, so he always gets ready. Ready for what, he doesn't know, but he's ready, sort of.

"Hi, Tim."

It's Martha – he sees her more than anyone. She's a soft-hard type, soft voice, gentle manner, but no one crosses her. In his vernacular, she's the sergeant-major – the respect earned not expected. She has someone with her today, a big man with a big smile, white teeth gleaming. He walks into the room behind her, holds out a hand for an introduction. When Tim's attempt to return the courtesy is sluggish, the man moves quickly to take the focus away from it, bends forward and reaches a little farther with his long arm to make up the distance. He shakes Tim's hand gently but firmly, gives a light slap on Tim's shoulder.

"Jesse Connell," he says. "Good to meet you, Tim. I understand we have some of the same dust between our toes."

Tim squeezes his brain hard to get the reference, nods. "Afghanistan. Where were you?"

"KAF, for a full year and a bit – fortunate enough to have duties that kept me there on the base."

Tim smiles a little. "What year?"

"2006."

Some kinship expresses itself on Tim's face – it lightens. "We might've crossed paths."

"I might've kicked your ass at poker."

"I might've been too drunk to notice."

Jesse laughs out loud and it sounds like the whole host from heaven singing. Tim turns to hide his face, his emotions not his own or at least it feels as if they own him now.

Martha grins, moved too by Jesse's laugh. "You boys – do you ever grow up?" she says enjoying a good moment on the ward, and then she's all business. "They're moving you downstairs this morning, Tim. Jesse is going to take you now."

Tim's heart has only just settled back into a calm rhythm; it ramps up again. "Why?"

"Because we've seen some improvement. I recommended it. This is a step forward. The doctor wants you where it's a little quieter and less restricted – a little more freedom for you and then you can start seeing him in his office instead, more formal sessions."

Tim tries to remember when he's even seen a doctor. The time here's a blur in a haze.

"You're moving up, brother," Jesse says. "It's a vote of confidence from the man with the clipboard. It's all good."

Tim nods but he's still uneasy.

"It'll be fine, Tim. Trust me – you'll like it better on Jesse's ward. I like it better on Jesse's ward. In fact I'm thinking of checking myself in for a weekend holiday." She gives his arm a squeeze. "Good luck, honey."

Just like that she goes from sergeant-major to mother. It makes Tim feel better. She nods once and leaves them to it.

Jesse has a bag under his arm, offers it up. "Let me help you with your stuff."

"I don't have much."

"We have some more of your things downstairs in a locker for you. Some of it isn't allowed on this floor. Some of it we figured you just wouldn't need."

Jesse doesn't appear to be in a hurry, helps him fill the bag. As Tim does a last check of the room he wonders for the first time where the clothes came from. They're his from his place, stuff he hangs out in on weekends. How did it all get here? How did he get here?

He says aloud, "Who brought my stuff in?" He's stopped asking how he got here – no one will tell him despite his persistence asking every staff member he's run across these last two days.

"I dunno," says Jesse. "Family?"

"None anywhere nearby."

An easy-going shrug, "Well then, the man's got friends."

They walk the hall, out through the double sets of locked doors and down another hall and onto an elevator and Jesse presses the button for the next floor down. Tim shakes his head – he'd never take an elevator just to go one floor but he's glad to today. He's already tired.

"You in the Reserves, too?" Jesse asks.

Tim shakes his head, no. "I was Spec Ops, Ranger."

"Hooah, brother."

"Hooah." Tim mumbles it, feels like a fraud and wonders if they'd take him back now after all this. "You Army?"

"Air Force. Worked at the airfield. Mechanic."

"And now you're working in a _hospital?"_

"I get edgy around airplanes since I got back. You understand."

"Yeah. Yeah, I get it."

"Figured you would. You last out your contract?"

"Uh, yeah...and more. I was gonna go career, but…" The elevator doors open and save Tim from explaining himself. He doesn't feel like it.

Tim hopes maybe Jesse will be straight with him, understand that it's different for guys like them. He waits until they're in his new room after Jesse's shown him around – it doesn't take long, here's the common room, the nurses' station – then he corners him when they're alone again, asks the question, "Hey, Jesse, why am I here? I don't remember a thing. I just woke up in that room." He points up.

Jesse sits down on the bed and rubs his knee like it's sore and looks up at Tim standing nervously, looks him in the eye. "I know less about it than you, and that's the truth. I know that you're here 'cause you need to be, and _we're_ all here to make sure that you get whatever you need to get back square with yourself and out that door." It's his turn to point. "I like your doctor, for what it's worth. He's a straight-up guy."

Tim's disappointed and it shows.

"You need anything?" Jesse asks.

Again a head shake, no. Tim doesn't trust himself to speak.

"You change your mind, I'm down the hall. And listen up, 'cause this is important. If you feel like you need some company, you get scared maybe – and believe me, that's normal when you're outta your familiar spaces – if you get sad, maybe something's making you angry, you don't like something, then you come get me. Alright?"

Jesse stands up when Tim nods. "And don't get all Ranger-stupid proud on me when you need some help. That shit won't do you any good in here – just make everything harder for you and then that walk out the door will take longer. Being bad-ass might work with the ladies but there ain't no ladies in here."

Tim tries a smile. Jesse grins for him again.

"If you were on the base in 2006 then you might remember that fine looking young thing, all curvy, who ran the barber shop? Mmm-mmm." He makes some vaguely descriptive hand motions.

"Sure it wasn't a camel?"

"You're hilarious."

Tim thinks back, shakes his head. "I remember the DFAC and my bunk. I wasn't on base long enough to see much else. Sleep, eat, load up, Oscar Mike, double-time. Rinse, lather, repeat."

The description brings it into focus for Jesse; Tim can tell and he's sorry he's the one responsible for the grin disappearing. But it comes back and Jesse grips Tim's shoulder, gives it a little shake.

"Don't you worry about nothing, you hear? You just look after yourself. Get some rest. Doctor wants to see you later. Like I said, I'm just down the hall. Call me if you can't find your ass to wipe it, being a Ranger and all."

He laughs again, drops his arm and leaves. The door closes behind him.

Tim stares at the room then stares at the bed then moves over and lies down on it. There are three doors in this room too – a door to the hall without a window this time, a closet, a bathroom. The ceiling looks the same as in the old room. Tim draws his knees up and drops an arm over his eyes.

* * *

 


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

This room is different.

There are tiny hints of personality, on the verge of messy, with stacks of books on the desk because the bookshelf is overrun, a UCLA mug and a banana peel next to the computer keyboard, a lingering smell of coffee and rotting fruit, small colorful figurines, Super Mario and Yoshi, sitting incongruously on a thick text of pharmaceuticals. But it's still a hospital. It's got the fluorescent ceiling lights, the shiny linoleum floor, the same generic trash can that's in every room, except this one has a plastic bag in it. There are no plastic bags allowed inside the ward.

Tim stands framed in the doorway, a portrait of nothing, teetering, or maybe that's an illusion. He can't tell anymore; he's not certain of anything.

The doctor stands up and walks over to greet him, hands in his pockets, forced casual is how Tim reads it. Tim dislikes him, distrusts him. The feeling comes on strong and immediate.

"Morning, Tim." A smile. "Uh…I'm not sure if you'll remember me. I'm Dr. Sullivan. Call me Alex though. Why don't you have a seat? Any chair you like…"

Tim was expecting gray hair and glasses. At least the guy has glasses, he thinks. He leans forward, tips himself into the room, reluctant. He pauses on the way to a chair, chews on his lip, reads the titles on a few of the books, wants to pick one up just to hold it. But it's the plastic bag that stops him cold. He can't keep his eyes off the plastic bag. It's so normal. Something wells up looking at it.

"You know, I could easily have you hog-tied on the floor with your belt, and off myself with that plastic bag before you could hit the panic button. You ever watch anyone die, Alex?"

The threat sounds empty to his ears – he doesn't even know why he said it except that he refuses to be sad. He wants to be pissy, another bad night's sleep after God knows how much time spent in drug-induced exhausting nothingness, and maybe he wants to see what happens when someone does press the panic button. It might make him feel like he's living again. This limbo is hell.

Dr. Sullivan looks nervous and Tim feels a nudge of guilt but he doesn't care enough to do anything about it except make note of it. He's submerged and it's thick and he can't fight his way out to help himself let alone this man. He picks out a seat in the pause, pushes it against the wall facing the door and nearest to the garbage can, sits, arms crossed, and waits.

Dr. Sullivan is still standing, reaches behind him feeling for the arm of his chair and sits too, not taking his eyes off Tim.

"The, uh…panic button is a constant reminder of the risks that make it necessary for me to have it, but you know, being hog-tied with my own belt never crossed my mind as a reason to need to use it."

Alex is going for cavalier and for some reason it unnerves Tim. He feels exposed, under a spotlight and he hates it. He says off-hand, trying to regain some ground, "Shit, you know I wouldn't do it."

"Which? Off yourself or hog-tie me?"

Tim gives him his best level US Marshal glare. "Off myself."

Alex smiles back. "I hope not, but that still leaves me with the hog-tying to worry about."

There's a pause then while they each try to get the measure of the other.

"Look," says Alex, backing off first, "if you're thinking I've already got you all figured out – I don't. That's not how this works. About all I know is your age, that you're a US Marshal, formerly an Army Ranger, and that you don't react well to Lorazepam. So you're going to have to tell me everything else." He opens a folder on his desk. "Why are you here, Tim?"

Tim has no idea, no answer to give. He loses his train of thought and the silence drags on, long enough that he forgets that it's his turn to talk. Dr. Sullivan clears his throat and Tim snaps back to the room and blurts out what's uppermost on his mind.

"What did I do? Did I hurt somebody?"

"No. No, you didn't hurt anybody." Alex gives the answer, watches the reaction carefully.

Tim studies the doctor's face looking for deception. He doesn't appear to be lying. Tim feels dizzy – the relief overwhelms him and the exhaustion is crushing. "I wasn't sure if… I can't remember anything."

Alex reinforces the statement. "You didn't do anything wrong, Tim. You didn't hurt anybody." Then he continues, "Not remembering what happened could be a side effect of the medication you're on or it could be your mind blocking it out…for now. Either way, I'm here to help you sort through all this. What can you tell me about your time here so far?"

"My time here?" Tim shrugs. "Not much. I don't even remember how I got here. And no one will tell me…" Tim's voice rises in frustration; he rises with it, shuffles to the window and it wears him out just getting there. He drops his forehead against the metal grate covering the glass. He just wants to get back to his room and sleep, or try to. This is tiring and stupid and he was hoping for something more. What though, he doesn't know. Something. An explanation maybe. He dismisses the doctor with a word, "Fuck."

"Alright, look… I know this must be frustrating and confusing, and I want to help you – I _can_ help you – but to do that I need to understand what it is you're going through. We can start with this moment… with how you're feeling right now. Would that work? Can we talk about that?"

Tim shakes his head by rolling it back and forth on the window. "How about you talk? I'm too fucking tired to talk. That's all I am. I'm fucking tired. You want to know what I'm going through? I don't know. No one will tell me. I haven't a fucking clue. I don't know why I'm here. I don't know when I got here. I don't know what fucking day it is. I don't know if I'm in trouble. Did I hit my head? Am I sick? Is there something wrong with me? I'm tired of this bullshit. But mostly I'm just tired, okay?" He turns and glares. "Can you do something with that?"

"Yes, we can do something with that." Alex looks around his desk, picks up a small square pad of paper, a day calendar of cartoons, rips through the top eight and tosses them in the garbage can, the one with the plastic bag. "It's Monday." He smiles, taps the day's cartoon.

"It's Monday." Tim looks like someone just handed him a glass of water after a day in the desert. He drinks it down greedily, thirsty. _It's Monday._

Alex smiles, encouraging, gives him more. "You've been here for almost six days. You were admitted because you had a…a psychotic break, which means your mind temporarily distorts its sense of reality. You've been experiencing some delusions and panic attacks since you arrived and you've been given sedatives and anti-psychotics to calm things down, get things back under control, which might be partly why you're so tired. But…as for the reasons why all this is going on…" Alex shrugs, apologetic. "Only you know that, Tim, even if it might not seem like you do…just now."

He's teetering again, he can feel it, and the floor and the walls are moving. The doctor is not speaking English, Tim is sure he's not. Nothing he just said makes any sense but something clicks into place. He takes a shaky step and another and another and sits back in the chair. He drops his head and wraps his hands around the back of his neck.

"Fuck."

* * *

Tim doesn't sleep well, another night of restless exhaustion, intruding memories. There are no distractions here. His body is tired but his mind is ticking away – tick, tick. He can't stop thinking about those two words, _psychotic break. What the fuck?_

He's dressed and sitting on the chair, on the very edge of the chair, in his room. He stands, shuffles to the door and back, sits again, repeats the maneuver every ten minutes or so. He's not sure what time it is but he knows he has another meeting with the doctor this morning, his psychiatrist, Alex, the eager nerd with glasses and definitions and no real answers for him. There are questions lingering from yesterday and he's anxious to get to his appointment. He thinks it's probably a good thing they're sedating him right now. He spent half the night imagining putting a fist hard into the doctor's face, the rest of it trying to remember what happened to get him here and both halves of the night seem a waste of time with the feel of morning on him, nothing accomplished.

He looks around the room again for the clock he knows isn't there. What time is it? He has no idea, not really, can only guess and he doesn't trust his guesses. It could be 7am, it could be 10am. They've been pretty consistent delivering his little cup of pills though so Tim figures it has to be past eight.

Oddly it's coffee that steals its way into his thoughts, a whiff of it from the hallway or a memory. He misses his morning coffee. A morning coffee meant you were back on base after a night outside the wire. It meant you were safe, for now. He misses even the routine of making his coffee. He'd settle for decaf just for the familiar taste on his tongue, just for something familiar, his mug. Do they mean this to be torture? Is he paying for something he did? He feels emotions pushing, tears threatening to expose themselves, squeezes his eyes shut and wraps himself in his arms tightly. It passes.

There's someone at the door and Tim stands up quickly, too quickly, and the room spins, his mind spins, his whole world is out of control.

Jesse steps in and over to him, reaches out a steadying hand. "You okay, Tim?"

"Stood up too fast."

"You gotta stop partying all night, man. Or at least invite me along."

"There weren't enough girls to go around."

"I'd bring my own."

"Bring two. Same time every night. You know where I live."

There's a grin and a silent acknowledgment that it'll be some time before they can drink together. Tim likes Jesse. Jesse doesn't treat him like he'll shatter or hurt someone or hurt himself. Jesse talks to him, not _at_ him. It's a small piece of decency.

"You ready to go see Dr. Sullivan?"

Tim tilts his head and frowns. "Been ready since I left yesterday."

"Yeah? The novelty wears off. Trust me."

They head down the hall together. Jesse puts out an arm to steady Tim again at a corner.

"How's the knee?" Tim asks.

"Hell in this weather. You might even be glad to be inside. It's the wettest month ever."

"I don't mind the rain." It's wistful, pathetic, and Tim wishes he hadn't said it. He tries to cover it. "Not after all the dust. Whoever said 'dry heat's better' deserves a boot up the ass."

"You sleep okay last night?"

Tim tucks his chin down, looks away. "Yeah."

"You're so full of shit." Jesse glances over and catches Tim rubbing at his eyes. "You want me to talk to the doctor about it?"

"Is that a threat?"

And Jesse's laughing. He never gets offended. "Fine, I'll leave off saying anything until you collapse from exhaustion. Are all Rangers this stupid?"

"Nah, we're just not pussies like you Air Farce fairies, sleeping on your feather beds every night while the real soldiers sleep on the ground."

Jesse just keeps laughing. "You mean the real _stupid_ soldiers."

Dr. Sullivan is waiting. He strikes Tim as the always-on-time type. _Probably goes to bed early and sleeps like a baby in striped pajamas,_ Tim thinks, and he's angry before the session even starts, working up to it all night. He steps into the office, doesn't give the door a chance to shut tightly behind him before he's on the offensive.

"I spent all night trying to remember something. It's not happening. We can talk all you want but can't you just tell me what happened? What's the point of dragging this out?" He sees the steam from the doctor's mug, feels the tears sneaking back, swallows hard. "Can I get a cup of coffee?"

"No one's trying to keep anything from you, Tim."

"Well, they're keeping coffee from me."

Alex stands up and they're at an equal level now, eye to eye.

"I can't tell you what it is that you're not remembering because I honestly don't know. I can't read your mind and I sure as hell won't try to guess. All I can do is listen and figure this out _with_ you. You want answers. I get that. You're free to ask me anything – nothing is off limits in here, okay? I, uh…I don't have a quick solution for this. But I will never lie to you."

He walks over to the door and closes it properly, takes his glasses off to clean them, puts them back on. "And sure, yeah, here. Have my coffee." He picks up the mug sitting on his desk, holds it out. "It's not great, but it's fresh." He glances over at Tim with a faint smile. "You look like you need it worse than me. I hope you like it black."

Fists and tears are battling and Tim's backing fists, but he's too tired to keep up the fight. Tears win. The coffee offering is left hanging in the air and Alex watches helplessly as Tim crumbles – not enough sleep, the ground shifting. He makes it to the nearest chair and collapses, sobs openly, can't hide so he hides his face in his hands. It's not enough but he's past caring. The coffee smells good. It smells good.

* * *

 


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

Jesse's right, Tim thinks. He's not so anxious to see Dr. Sullivan this time. They brought him coffee this morning and he figures it's the doctor's doing, so at least he can thank him for that. He's sitting up on his bed. He's made it properly just for something to do that doesn't take too much thinking, tight military corners, but now he's messing the top of it and he doesn't care, leaning against the wall with his arms wrapped around his knees, waiting.

Jesse knocks, peeks in the door, takes it all in, walks over and sits on the bed too. "Hey brother, not so keen today, huh?"

Tim shifts his eyes sideways to look at him. He doesn't mind looking at Jesse. Jesse spent fourteen months on a base in southern Afghanistan. He was mostly bored there, mostly, but still he saw things and heard things and felt the effects of war on a country and on the men flown in and trucked outside the wire. He and Tim exchanged a few stories as Tim slowly got accustomed to his reality on this ward. It was an anchor, talking to someone about something familiar. He's not as afraid when Jesse's around.

"You're right. The novelty wears off."

"But not usually this fast, man. You okay?"

"I don't know. Am I? If I was, would I be here?"

"Brother, if you weren't okay, you _wouldn't_ be here. That's the way it works. I've seen it. I know. They need _you_ to figure out that you're okay. Then when you leave, you won't be doubting yourself. And right now, I can see it – brother, you're doubting yourself, big time."

"They'll just tell me it's the meds."

"It's not the meds, man. It's you. You got to get your mojo back."

"My mojo?" And Tim starts to chuckle. It's a foreign sound in this room. Jesse chuckles with him. Tim tilts his head a little to the left. It reminds him of before, a small bit of himself peeking out from hiding. "Alright, take me to see the wizard."

"That's the way, brother. Have faith."

* * *

"I don't want to talk about Afghanistan! I got nothing to say that means anything. I understand shit about it and I was _there_. I want to talk about why I'm here. Why am I here? What happened? What did I do?"

Alex chews his lip, he looks uncertain. "Tim, I'm not going to describe for you the events from the day you were admitted. It would be counterproductive and I sincerely don't know much. But you didn't do anything wrong. You didn't do _anything."_

"That's bullshit. If I didn't do anything wrong then why can't I go home?"

Tim's seeing all the outlines today. Things are settling into place, at least the things he knows. He's slotted them into his life, his outside life, his life before the hospital, and he's aware of today and yesterday. But there's a shutdown in communication between his body and his brain that apparently lasted almost a week and it's gnawing at his sanity and he's desperate to throw a bright light on it, sort it out and slot it in too. Then he wants out of here. He's angry at somebody but he's not sure who and Alex is available and Alex has the title, so he's yelling at him.

"This is all bullshit! What aren't you telling me?"

"I've told you everything I can about what happened and I'm sorry that it's, uh…it's not a lot of hard facts. But you've got to trust me on this – you haven't done anything wrong. The events on that day are only important because they were meaningful to _you_ somehow. I need _you_ to remember the circumstances that triggered the psychosis. I'm hoping when you do remember that we can figure out why it had the effect on you that it did. I think something on that day, uh…struck a nerve a little too close to another memory. And we have to work backward, work with what we've got. You've just been through something very traumatic and we need to talk about it, about what you're experiencing…"

Tim's pacing, stops and stares hard at Alex. The anger is large today, too big for the room. Tim yells through it, "How can I have been through something very traumatic, but _nothing the fuck happened?"_ He picks up the garbage bin with the plastic bag neatly tucked in it and heaves it across the room and it bounces hollow off the wall and the bag and the contents spill out onto the floor, then he slams open the door and walks out.

Alex jumps up and out the door, paging Jesse as he goes. He doesn't bother trying to run Tim down but follows at a distance.

Tim rounds a corner and almost collides with the nurse. He sees Jesse signal to someone behind him and he swivels fast, ready, facing Alex. He almost loses his balance.

Jesse is there, again steadying him. "Whoa, slow down Mr. Eveready. Geez, you'd think we were in a dark alley in Kabul. Had enough for today, have you? I bet Dr. Sullivan is tired of your sorry ass too. Do you two need to kiss and make up?"

Tim glares down the hall at Alex but Alex only gives him a smile back.

"All's good," says Alex. "You sleeping okay, Tim?"

Tim backs up to lean against the wall, won't look at either of them. "I'm fine."

"Okay, uh… We'll see you tomorrow then." Alex smiles again, turns and walks away.

Jesse whistles through the tension, whittles it away ridiculously and tunelessly. Tim chuckles finally.

"You alright?" says Jesse.

Tim presses his lips tightly, eyebrows up then down, fatigue in the drop. "I don't wanna talk about Afghanistan. You understand." He repeats Jesse's cue – one veteran to another.

"I get it." Jesse repeats back Tim's reply to him from that first day they met then adds some, "You're a bad-ass Ranger, a mother-fucking Marshal. Nothing gets to you. Nothing can penetrate that thick wall of stupidity."

"Fuck you."

Jesse laughs. "And you wonder why I went Air Force. Fucking dumbass Army muscleheads."

Tim pushes away from the wall and he and Jesse walk the corridor back to his room.

"I'm gonna complain to management about your language."

Jesse unlocks the door at the ward. "Oh, is that so? Well, I'm gonna tell Dr. Sullivan about your invisible friends."

"Hey, they're all the friends I got."

"So you're a _pathetic_ fucking dumbass Army musclehead."

The chuckles are a little looser this time.

* * *

Alex closes the door to his office and stands there lost. That was the shortest session he's ever had – ten minutes, a new record. He looks at his watch and thinks he'll get caught up on some administrative work but gives up before he sits down. He's too agitated. He decides to spend the extra fifty minutes he has this morning with Sophia.

He drags his feet walking to the ward, thinking about Tim, trying to picture him in Afghanistan. He has no idea how to start drawing that picture and wonders if he should find out more about it, Operation Enduring Freedom – wonderful epithet that – everyone involved is walking around forever in a prison. He knows he's kidding himself. Any information he could get his hands on would be like a blurb on a jacket cover of the real story, and the real story is nothing but blank pages because it'll never get written and it would be different every time anyway. So what's the point. He finishes up thinking he's probably better off hearing Tim's experiences with ears untainted by spin and slant. Memory is water – you can't hold it, fluid, changing, not a good foundation. And it's all he and Tim have to work with.

Alex arrives at Sophia's door more quickly than he intended. He takes a deep breath and walks in, enters her nightmare.

He's disappointed to see it's Christina again on watch. She starts in on him, hissing, telling him her tale of woe when he appears, a verbal spray of the events that played out that morning. She's still riled up, voice shrill with contempt, convinced that Alex will sympathize.

"She was drinking water, finally. But then she peed all over the bed. She did it out of spite. I know it. I could see it in her face. It was hell getting her into the shower. She scratched my arms up real bad. Look!"

He doesn't. He motions for her to leave and she's out the door fast. Alex's eyes stay fixed for a moment on a beam of light smudged across the floor, a little bit of sun in the murky dusk. The room still stinks of urine even through the heavy scent of caramel from the meal replacement drink sitting untouched on the table, a pink straw sticking up past the rim of the glass, listless and leaning.

_The pink straw is fucking ridiculous,_ he thinks, and avoids looking at it. It makes him depressed.

Sophia's asleep or faking it – he's not sure which. Her eyelashes cast spider-leg shadows down her cheeks. She's had a hard day and it's still early. He lets his annoyance at the nurse stew for a bit. Christina doesn't like her job, she doesn't like the patients, she can't handle her spray tan getting wrinkled. She's in the wrong place.

Maybe he's in the wrong place. He straightens his back and tries to pull his resolve up from where it's slipped around his feet. A cigarette would be nice. He shakes the thought, gropes for some optimism.

Sophia's deadly still – Alex has to focus his eyes carefully to see the slight rise and fall of her chest under the blanket – but she moved today, he reminds himself, she held a glass, had something to drink, put up a fight. It doesn't matter if it was spite. It was _something_.

He repeats it to himself all day. _It was something._

_Little things, that's what you have to live for._ Bridget's advice pops into his head and drags along with it an idea. Alex stops by the men's ward on his way out at the end of the day, gives Jesse a small voice recorder for Tim, leaves instructions.

"Tell him to record anything that comes to mind…when he feels up to it…uh, when he's alone. He can erase anything if he doesn't want me to hear it but… Well, it's better if he doesn't. Tell him I'll be the only one listening to it."

Jesse thwacks Alex's shoulder and knocks him sideways. "I'm on it, Doc."

"Uh…thanks."

* * *

There's no booze here. So tonight Tim wishes he'd taken up smoking though that's probably not allowed either – it would set off the alarms. He needs something quiet to do with his hands fidgeting idle in the still hours of the night, something to hide the shaking, something to fill the time when he isn't sleeping but doesn't want to wake the dead, his fellow inmates, all of them shuffling and sharing their troubles in a droning rhythmic hum. He's tired of it, tired of hearing it, tired of hearing his own voice in the chorus and sleeping days to avoid it, pacing the ward at night or sitting by the window in his room hoping to be somewhere else in the morning. It's useless. Here he is, still.

What did he do? What did he do wrong?

Tim lets himself go and it comes out in a stream of tears, then a growl of shame. Crying never solved anything. He feels unarmed, untrained for this battle. The doctor's given him one tool – one – so he might as well use it. He's aggressive rubbing the evidence of futility off of his cheeks and his chin, wiping his hands dry roughly on his sweatpants, then he leans over and grabs the small voice recorder and gives his frustration the soap box until he's tired enough to try sleeping again.

* * *

 


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

It's another day of rain and he's so tired of rain. Alex steps out of his car and into a pothole in the parking lot, sinks ankle-deep in cold water, mutters a string of curses at himself for not wearing his boots and wishes for the hundredth time since the alarm woke him this morning that he hadn't decided to quit smoking. He takes the long route through the first floor past the emergency room vending machines and grabs a bag of M&Ms for breakfast, peanut for protein. The air in the office is stale but that first sip of fresh coffee – that one little sip _–_ it's worth living for. He thinks of Tim Gutterson and the coffee he's hopefully enjoying right now, then takes off his soggy shoes and socks, puts them on the radiator to dry and lounges back in his chair with his cold feet perched up on the desk. Emptying out the packet of M &Ms he starts with the red ones _–_ it's that kind of morning.

Tim is his first appointment for the day, this will be his fifth time seeing him, and his thoughts keep sliding there. He flips through the notes in his file, hoping he'll find a cue on the pages, but the words are the same as they were yesterday and nothing speaks to him. He chews at his pen, thinks this job is all u-turns and switch backs.

"I read somewhere that skipping breakfast can be bad for your health."

She never knocks, not even when the door's closed, but he doesn't mind.

"Hello, Bridget, didn't hear you knock."

"Chocolate?"

"I'll have you know, M&M's are part of a… _Holy shit."_ He finally pulls his head out of the file and looks at her. She's waterlogged. "Did you swim here?"

"I wisely decided that the rainiest day of the rainiest week of the year was a good day to ride my bike to work."

"It's a Dutch thing, isn't it?"

"Don't be racist or I'll hit you with my wooden clog. You were looking for me?"

"Yeah." Alex drops his feet to the floor and sits up at attention, attempts to collect his thoughts, form a question for her. "It's about this new patient... I don't know... Is it a military thing? It's just… It's impossible to get him to trust me. It's obvious he doesn't. There is so much hiding just...and I can see it, and he's talking but... Sure, I can make a reasonable assessment... Still, he's keeping me out of the loop. He's keeping _himself_ out of the loop. I'm used to gratuitous gut-spilling. I can't get anything worth anything from him. We're absolutely stalled. What's different? How do I get him to engage during a session, to commit to his treatment?"

"You're asking me for advice again? You little shit, thanks for making me feel old."

"Bridget, you're too cool to be old."

"I'm too old for flattery. Try again."

He pouts. "Pretty please? Any ideas? Anything?"

"You look prepubescent pleading like that." She flops into a chair, thinks about it. "It's your Marshal, right? The Afghanistan veteran?"

He nods.

"They dole out their trust sparingly, Junior."

"Yeah, thanks. I figured out that much."

"Alex, you're not going to like any advice I have – it's your age, cutie-pie, you're too young, so impatient."

"Can you fucking help me, please?"

She holds his look, his frustration evident, on the surface. She relents. "Okay, since you asked so nicely, here it is: Stop rushing it. It's a relationship, not a race."

"That's it?"

"That's it, all my experience. You can leave the nest now."

"But…" Alex shakes his head, disbelieving.

"But?" Bridget shakes her head, mimicking him, mocking.

"But I'm not getting anywhere. And I mean _nothing._ Seriously, I feel like…"

She holds up her index finger, stalling his objections. "Just take one session, or a couple if you need to, and _don't_ try to push him forward. If he takes the lead, all the better – it'll make him feel like he's got some control back. Let him get to know you, give a little of yourself, there's no harm in it…usually. War is forever etched into his psyche, and war is the ultimate team sport. He needs to know you're playing on his side. You have to build some credibility with him."

Alex looks doubtful mulling the advice. "But how do I do that?"

She answers with a small shrug. "Give it time. And if you actually listen to my advice and do as I say, I'll buy you lunch. How's that for motivation?"

Looking back at the useless scribblings in his file, Alex sighs.

"12:30?"

"Yeah, sure, it's a date." He answers without thinking, distracted by the mountain.

"Your enthusiasm is flattering, but don't get any ideas. I'm too old for you. And put on some shoes. We have regulations here – no shirt, no shoes, no service."

Alex opens his bottom drawer and throws a pair of flip-flops at her.

* * *

The morning staff meeting is quick. Frank is back from vacation with a vacantly happy look and a tan, laughs when he sees Alex's bare feet, so it's a bit of a surprise when he starts yelling about the budget cuts seconds later. Alex spends a free half hour after that buried in a stack of books, thinking hard about _not_ thinking too hard about too specific a game plan for Tim's session because plans never work anyway, they just distract from what's important. He's itching so badly for a cigarette he accidentally overdoses on coffee and gets jittery. Then it's ten o'clock and Tim's standing in the doorway looking resigned and self-conscious but a bit more focused today too. His hands are shaking and he tries to hide it, tucks them up under his arms.

Alex wonders if the medication dose is too strong, opens the file to check.

"Come on in, Tim. Have a seat."

Tim moves deliberately, slowly. He scans the office, eyes lingering on the bookshelf again before pulling his regular chair back against the wall and sitting down, then arms back guarding, crossed tightly over his chest. He notices the bare feet, the flip-flops.

"Jesus Cruisers? It's not summer, dude."

"What?"

"Are you going native on us? Or do they not pay you enough to buy proper footwear?"

Alex has forgotten the bare feet, too focused on other things. He casts an involuntary glance over at the radiator, his shoes and socks toasty and dry now, lets out an embarrassed chuckle. "Uh…yeah. Actually, I should warn you, I'm from California. It resurfaces now and again, but please don't hold it against me." He's dry and sardonic, even if his pant cuffs are still wet.

Tim follows Alex's gaze and sees the shoes drying. "Should you be leaving those shoelaces just out there like that?"

"Why? Are you thinking about hog-tying me again?"

It looks like the prodigal son, the grin that creeps home onto Tim's face. "Oh, I could do a lot with a belt and a pair of shoelaces."

"Yeah? So you're like MacGyver."

"Yeah, sure, MacGyver. I don't remember – does he shoot people for a living, too?"

The grin's gone. Alex watches Tim carefully, watches the shadows of emotions that flicker across Tim's face before he reins them all in, eyes deflecting. Alex thinks he could use this, turn it around and push back, but Bridget's words bounce around his head, jump up and down looking for attention. Maybe she's right, he thinks, maybe it is too soon. He lifts an eyebrow, gets up and walks over to collect his socks, sits on a chair by the radiator and puts them on.

"MacGyver – he would take everyday things, belts and shoelaces, and use them to achieve his goals, like creating a distraction, for example. I remember he made a smoke screen out of pesticide and a frying pan once. I used to think he was so cool when I was I kid."

He lets the silence last between them, leaving some space open for Tim to fill. Tim stays quiet though, looking down at his hands loose now in his lap and fidgeting with his sleeves.

The tremors are on display and Alex comments. "It's hard to do much knot tying with shaky hands. Is it bothering you?"

Tim won't look at him. He frowns, stuffs his offending hands self-consciously under his legs but they slide out again and start playing with the hem of his hoodie. He begins to speak. "You know what makes me good with a rifle? I'm steady – steady hands, steady eyes, steady breathing, steady, every bit of me. Consistent, always, you know? Same position every time. It's repetition that does it, and patience and steady hands." He stops fidgeting, opens his fingers out to highlight the tremors. He looks disgusted. "Is this permanent?" Before Alex can answer, Tim's up and shuffling to the window again and clenching his shaking into fists of anger. "Fuck it. They probably won't let me near a rifle again anyway."

"It's not permanent, Tim. Shaking, muscle tremors – it's a common side effect of your medication. There could be other things as well that show up and we can talk about it whenever you need to, alright? We'll go through the list and figure out what's what."

"The _list?_ Jesus. Can't I just stop taking them?"

Alex can't help looking apologetic and Tim slumps back to the chair.

"I'm not going home 'til I remember, am I? That's just the way it is, isn't it?"

"Are you bored here, Tim?"

"Bored? Yes. No. My fucking life is hanging… I'm not bored, I'm desperate." The hands go roughly over his hair again, in every session the same. "You must be bored. I keep saying the same things – running in circles. Aren't you frustrated? Fuck, I am."

* * *

It's an overcrowded lunch hour, buzzing with lunch hour pulse, plates clattering and voices clashing. They're sitting by the window. Alex is watching Bridget frown, confounded over his excessively ketchup-drenched french fries. He waves one in front of her to get her attention; she clears her throat and picks up the conversation they started earlier.

"It's just Frank's way, junior. He crawls up your ass – he likes it up there. Be patient, give it some time. You'll learn to appreciate the constant pressure, like a pillar of support, a wedge to lean back on." Her laugh at the visual she's painted is big and toothy, catchy.

A grin sneaks its way onto Alex's face and he huffs and pushes his plate away so he can lean on the table.

"It's not just Frank," he says, drops the french fry back on his plate, the grin with it. "It's the whole administrative process – the insurance company, Sophia's family. They've, uh…hired an attorney, _just in case,_ they tell me. I don't know what to do. How am I gonna make the right decision for her when I'm pinned under all this? It's like she's reduced to this pile of paperwork and legal shit and all I can do is sign it and file it and fuck... It's wrong. It's all wrong."

Bridget's quiet, her gaze steadily fixed on his face, a nudge to keep talking. She picks up her fork and spears an onion.

Alex stares at it; he knows how it feels, that onion. He grimaces in sympathy and continues his rant, "I'm following all the guidelines, doing it by the book, but what if the guidelines and books are wrong for her? Maybe she needs something different, a new approach, a new point of view entirely. Sometimes I just, uh…I just wanna get her off all the drugs and get her out, you know? Get her out of that depressing fucking room with that depressing fucking smell…"

"You do realize you've spent this entire lunch so far dodging the issue you actually want to discuss?"

"How's the salad?"

"The cafeteria dressing is divine," she says flatly. "Are you done eating?"

"No." He starts picking at his lunch again.

"Alex, Sophia is not going to hop out of bed tomorrow and eat breakfast and you know it."

"I could try the drip again…"

"And she'll pull it out and hurt herself, _again_."

"Did you know she used to be a riding instructor?" Alex punctuates his points with a fry. "She trained jockeys and she actually competed for a while too. She's still got a horse, uh…somewhere outside of town. Her mom's taking care of it."

"Alex…"

He's caught up in his thoughts, looking down at his food and then out into the swirling rain and the flow of people trying to hold onto their umbrellas and jacket collars. "I'm not gonna give up on her."

"Alex…"

"What?"

"Tell me about your sister."

She says it so innocently, but Alex knows her better.

"What?" He snaps it out.

"Your sister, Alex. What did she do?"

"Bridget…" Alex picks up the bottle of ketchup, unscrews the lid and then screws it back on, stalling. He can feel her unwavering, blunt-force silence pressing him down. He looks up, trying hard not to look sad, and meets her eyes, gives her a fond smile. "…piss off."

Bridget sighs and kicks his boot under the table. "Are you going to eat those?"

"Yeah."

She takes a few fries anyway, moves along, her point made. "How'd it go with your veteran this morning?"

He frowns but it's thoughtful not guarded.

"If you ask, they'll reassign him," she says, eyes mischievous.

Alex sets the ketchup down and crams the last of the fries into his mouth before she can take anymore. "I'm giving him some space like you suggested. He's on emotional lock-down. It's impressive. But I'm not giving up on him, either."

"That's my boy."

* * *

 


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

His neighbor, Mrs. Meyer, and her morbidly obese Shih Tzu catch Alex just outside his apartment door and pin him there. He's still looking for his keys, can't make a clean escape. She bustles over and leans in close, eyes creased at the corners from her haughty smile. She's in perfect gossip mode – this time it's her niece's husband's alleged gambling problem – and Alex pretends to listen, staring at the dog who stares right back. It's beyond comprehension, the speed and ease with which Mrs. Meyer keeps up a one-sided conversation, and his already rain-soggy takeout boxes of Chinese noodles are getting cold. So five minutes going on five hours later he coughs, loud enough to dramatically derail her chatter, makes a borderline rude excuse and slams the door in her face.

He leans back against the wall with his eyes closed and allows himself to miss California and sunshine for a moment. He doesn't miss much else about the place.

The noodles are bland and rubbery when he finally gets to them, wet cardboard flavor. Alex uses the chopsticks in the paper that came with his dinner because he can't find a clean fork. He glances over at a week's worth of dishes stacked in the sink, thinks that he should maybe take care of that. It's one more thing piled on top of everything else and he starts feeling powerless, at the shore watching the tsunami roll in and nothing he can do about it. It reminds him of a day on the beach near where he grew up, the morning after a storm and he's walking on the sand counting dead gulls and fish and crabs scattered wretchedly. He remembers being sad, feelings of futility.

He decides to do some work to pull himself out of this self-pitying undertow. Tim's recorder is in his pocket. He puts it on the table and starts it. There's a rustling sound, something that might be a snort, derision, then Tim's voice, quiet. Alex doesn't get his hopes up.

"So there's something in all the shit in my past that's supposed to help me out here? I don't see it. I don't see the point of dragging all that up. Seriously. It's not like you can undo anything.

"Alright, so…what? I should just ramble into this thing? You said you're looking for a key to a room? What room? And, yeah, I know you're being metaphorical. Can't someone just say it's a room like this? Can you give me some hint what I'm looking for? 'Cause it's just not there. _It's not there._ Maybe there is no room.

"I have a buddy who's seeing a psychologist. The psychologist said that his flashbacks are a type of psychosis, memories intruding on reality or something like that. Psychosis... I met a psychic once through work – maybe she could come by and help us out. I'm willing to try anything just to get the fuck outta here."

Alex huffs a short laugh, pauses the recording to get a notepad and a pen and pour himself some tequila, the good aged kind, a gift from Bridget for his birthday. He settles on the couch, TV on mute, and forgets all about the mess in the kitchen. Tim is actually talking.

"And just how does a mind keep secrets from itself? That makes no sense…

"Aw, fuck, but it does make sense, really. I mean, there are things that I remember – I don't drag them up too often, least not on purpose – things that I wish my mind would shut out. Like I remember that time that Stover – his name was Steve, but we all called him Stover – anyway, Stover was… Shit, see, I don't like to bring up that memory. But I have to, right? You said to just record anything that comes to mind, so… Anyway, Stover, he… It was a mine. I just… He… I just remember helping pick up… Could've put him in that white box with his stuff, some of the pieces were small enough. I hated collecting a guy's stuff for the box. I had to do it a couple of times. It's supposed to be something to send back… I dunno, fucking memorabilia, I guess. That'd be hilarious putting in the bits instead. Here's an ear. Fuck. He was married – I remember that – so I guess it's supposed to remind his wife that there was once a man named Stover, Steve. Not anymore. He was a good guy. A bit of a geek, but he had your six. He never swore – I found that kinda weird considering... I didn't have patrols with him much. He wasn't on the sniper teams, but I remember him.

"I think the white boxes are way sadder than coffins.

"There's other stuff too that I'm wishing I didn't have the key for, rooms of shit that just shouldn't be remembered, just shouldn't _be_ period. And not all of it from Afghanistan.

"When you're in law enforcement, the worst is when you have a case with kids getting hurt or dying. It's bad – it's hard for people to get past it and get on with it. But, I dunno, I seem kind of immune. I think I saw enough of it already. It wears you flat. Now I'm just like, _oh fuck, not this again._ I don't think Rachel understands it. I don't think even Raylan does. Art maybe – he looks at me when I do that thing and go flat, and he feels bad, I can tell. I hate it from most people but it's okay from him. It's funny how that is.

"I'm rambling. I suppose you're used to it though, huh, Alex? You're expecting rambling, aren't you? I just don't remember what you all want me to remember. I figured out enough from a few things people here have said to know that what got me in here was something that happened at work. But no one will tell me what it was. I'm scared to remember. Everyone said I didn't hurt anyone, but I don't know if I believe it. I know what I'm trained to do.

"So here's a question for you, Alex – a little Catch-22 – if I don't ever remember will they ever let me out? And if I do remember, maybe it'll fuck me up and then I won't ever get out. I'm kinda feeling like I'm screwed here.

"There's something waiting for me, I know it, and I don't think I want to remember it."

Alex plays the recording to the end, restarts it from the beginning and listens again. It surprises him. There's more here than he'd hoped for. He scribbles down more notes than is probably necessary and falls asleep on the couch to the mute images of _Deadliest Catch_ on Discovery Channel and the raspy and deep flow of Tim's voice. He wakes later, interrupting a dream about crabs exploding in ocean-colored cascades, mushy flesh and spidery orange legs scattered across the dusty pavement.

* * *

The office looks bleak and lifeless in the gray light from outside. The storm, the heavy rain and wind, beat against the glass and Tim feels like he's on a ship, not like a pleasure cruise though, and this one's sinking.

Alex stands by the bookshelf behind his desk, his hair messy. He looks young. He smiles over and Tim tries to smile back.

"Hey, Tim."

"Hey." Tim remembers how big this room felt the first time, like something could happen here; today it feels small, insufficient somehow, a speck in the storm.

"Come on in. I, uh…I was thinking. I noticed before that you were looking at the books and I thought if you want something to read maybe there's something… I don't know. It's mostly old course material but… Do you read much?"

"Not since I got here." Tim turns his entire body around to face the door to illustrate what he's about to say, gestures vaguely. "Jesse…um, the nurse, he lent me a book." He turns back, slowly. "It's a thriller. I can't concentrate enough to read the fucking thing. I read a sentence and then," he rolls his hand, "read it again. It doesn't stick."

"Huh, might be the medication."

Tim lifts an eyebrow, doesn't bother to hide his frustration.

Alex turns quickly and searches the shelf, finds a slim paperback tucked into a corner and pulls it out. "What's it about, uh…the thriller?"

"I don't know," Tim snaps. "Like I told you, I haven't got past the first fucking paragraph."

Alex grimaces realizing it was a stupid question. He covers it with some humor. "Maybe Jesse just has really shitty taste in books and it's not you at all. Here, try this one."

Tim takes the book on offer, eyes the cover dully, reads the title. "Tao Te Ching? Are you shittin' me?"

"That's _the_ Tao Te Ching." Alex adds some enthusiastic hand movements. "There's some heavy wisdom in that tiny little book, man."

"Maybe you're the one with shitty taste in books."

Alex laughs, once. "Maybe. But humor me. Try it."

Tim knows he's stuck here for the hour, so he'd better fill it. He opens the book randomly, a good distraction from talking about himself, reads, _"Weapons are the tools of violence; all decent men detest them."_ He looks at the doctor. "Are you trying to tell me something?"

Alex slumps into his chair, silently curses a poor choice of phrasing by the translator. _"No._ No. Uh…it's not like you have to agree with it all." He scratches his head, a bit awkward, the beginnings of a smile tugging at his face. "That sentence though, it's gonna stick, isn't it?"

Tim reads it again; Alex watches him mouth it silently.

"Yeah, it's gonna stick alright." Tim sidles up to his chair against the wall, sits slowly. "And what does that say about me, Doc?" He flips through the book, stops at another random page, reads, _"The Tao doesn't take sides; it gives birth to both good and evil."_ He huffs. "Isn't that contradicting the last bit?"

Alex sits up, thinking. "Yeah, it is kinda, isn't it? Maybe contradictions are just part of human nature, something we can't ever escape?"

Tim is still thinking about it, sluggish, misses his cue to comment.

Alex plows on. "Or, maybe one is about the nature of the, uh…Force, and the other one is more focused on the Jedi. What do you think it says about you that this sentence sticks but you can't get through the first paragraph of a crappy thriller?"

"That maybe I don't like crappy thrillers, or maybe I'd make a shitty Jedi Knight – I'm not very mindful."

"Yeah, okay."

* * *

There isn't anything that doesn't bring back something. A cup of coffee is the respite of making it to base alive from that helo crash that one time; tying up laces is a glimpse back to that day Stover broke his getting ready and didn't live through the patrol; hard candy is that morning he grabbed a red one from the gunner on the truck and sucked on it as they sped through the outskirts of Kabul throwing the bright sweets out ahead of them and to the side to scatter the kids and get them off the road.

There was an IED waiting for them at the next intersection under some construction debris.

That was a good day. Someone in the lead truck spotted it, called it and they stopped – three hours sitting security with the convoy waiting on EOD to disarm the explosives. He didn't want their job. It was hot that day in the sun between the buildings, hot under his helmet with his rifle too big to be really useful. He and his team finally got permission to climb to the top of the nearest building with two others for security, scaring the locals who lived there. They set up on the roof, back to back, and swept their respective 180s looking for a guy with a phone. It was a tense three hours, weirdly quiet. They turned the convoy around afterward, plans all shot to hell, went back to base, filled balloons with water and had a water fight. Somebody had brought the balloons from home, so balloons brought it all back too.

The memories are sometimes mixed up, incomplete, inaccurate, they might differ from what the gunner saw or what the driver remembered, but they're always vivid. Tim can smell the smells, feel the textures, taste the dust or dark or diesel. It's like he's there again, all over again, every feeling, every time. That's why he changes his laces often and loves his coffee.

And he reads his books.

He can't pinpoint the exact moment when he decided to leave the military. He'd planned to go till his knees gave out then apply for a transfer to the sniper school and train the new guys. It seemed like a good path and he loved shooting and the job was certainly entertaining. But at some point he couldn't shut it out anymore, couldn't shut it down, couldn't turn it off and on again. He stopped laughing as much, drank more and hid himself on his bunk down days, lost in a book.

He's through the Tao Te Ching in under an hour, starts to read the author's translation notes for something to do. It's not sticking and it gets him agitated. He can't focus. Then there are noises in the hall, angry voices, and he stands up behind the door, watches.

Jesse calls from the other side, "Tim, buddy, it's me. I'm coming in." He pokes his head around, grins. "We got us an argument about basketball, but I settled it. Told them I'd slam dunk their asses in a basket if they didn't keep it down. You alright?"

Tim nods and sinks back down on the bed.

"How's the book, man?" Jesse asks.

"Apparently you've got shitty taste in novels."

Jesse laughs and leaves.

Tim hears some more arguing, hears Jesse cajoling. It reminds him of the soccer game, the dust kicking up – he can taste it on his tongue – the sniper bullet sinking in the dirt near the group standing around arguing with the guy who offered to ref. They all scrambled for cover and Tim and two others went hunting. He was sitting in some shade when the bullet broke up the game, reading a shitty novel about vampires, so now vampires bring it all back.

He can't read a book about vampires without remembering that day. It was a successful hunt, more entertaining than the book.

* * *

 


	10. Chapter 10

* * *

Tim stands when she walks into the waiting area, old-fashioned manners that catch him off guard now and again and it makes him think of his mother. The woman notices the courtesy. She smiles for Jesse then for Tim then walks past them and peers into Alex's office.

"Where's our boy?" she asks, directs the question at Jesse.

"Not sure, Dr. van. It's not like him to be late."

"No, it's not."

She plants her hands on her hips reminding Tim of Art. She turns her attention to him now, face inscrutable; he stares back, unblinking.

"I'm Dr. van Campen," she says, "but everyone here calls me Bridget. You are…?"

Jesse makes a move to answer for him; she stops him with a hand. Tim watches the exchange and wonders what she's expecting from him, or not expecting. It feels like a test but it doesn't bother him, he's just curious and mostly relieved that she doesn't hold out a hand for a handshake. He's sick of feeling embarrassed about the tremors.

He replies with his name. "Tim Gutterson."

"Well, hello Tim Gutterson," she says. "Please, sit. I'm blushing."

"I think, Dr. van, it'd take more than good manners to make you blush. A lot more. You watch yourself with her, Tim. She's whip-smart and _nasty."_

Bridget pouts. "That's not very nice. I'll make sure to say something very nasty on your employee review."

Tim can tell from the way Jesse is talking that he likes the doctor.

"Am I gonna have to rat you out to Frank about your porn downloads?"

She puts a finger against her mouth, shhh. "Do that and I'll tell everyone about your Little Pony collection."

"Oh, now, see? That's nasty."

"Shock and awe – that's how I play." She drops onto the couch beside Tim. "Would you stay and talk with me until Alex arrives? Don't listen to Jesse – I'm really a very nice person. And you, rapscallion," she says, points her finger and narrows her eyes at the nurse, "run along. I know your ward is short-staffed today. You probably have better things to do than babysit Mr. Gutterson and me." She's back looking at Tim. "You don't mind, do you?"

"No, ma'am."

Her face is happiness, a child's wonder. "I'll never get tired of hearing that. Can you say it again, exactly the same way?"

Tim cocks his head to one side, catches Jesse's eye and grin, and obliges her for his sake. "Yes, ma'am. 'No, ma'am.'"

She laughs, delighted, open. "I love it. Honestly, every woman in the world should live in the US for a while just to hear that."

Jesse rolls his eyes, says, "Good luck, man," and leaves them to it.

"Where are you from?" Tim asks.

"The Netherlands."

He nods. "You like it here?"

"I do. Kentucky is beautiful. Where are you from?"

"Uh, I moved around a bit – my dad was Air Force. We settled in Alabama when I was fourteen."

"I've never been to Alabama. Are they still there, your parents?"

Tim shakes his head. "Mom died five years ago – cancer." He swallows, twists his mouth, thinks about her again, that's twice in five minutes and more than he's given her this past year. She deserves better.

"Your dad?"

"They divorced when he was transferred to Texas from Maxwell. He died in a car accident a few years later."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not."

She pulls her head back, surprised. "Bastard?"

"Complete."

"Abusive?"

"Are you taking Alex's sessions for him today?"

"I can't turn it off. I spend my whole day talking frankly to people about their family issues and other issues. I do it to my friends too."

"Got any friends left?"

She smiles, amused. "Of course, I should warn you, everything you say to me is going directly into Alex's ear as soon as we can find him." She whispers, "I'm wearing a wire. This is all being recorded." She leans around him then and peers down the hallway. "Should we start worrying about him?"

Tim grins, unsure what to make of her except that he likes her manner. He decides to experiment a little, see what makes it back to him. He's mostly bored all day and here's some fun to be had.

"I think Alex is a big boy. And yeah, my dad was abusive. His idea of discipline was more like Roman Army than US military – whipping, holding back rations, beatings."

"Decimation?"

"Not possible. I was an only child. Who would he have left to beat on?"

She grins despite the topic of conversation. "You know your history."

"It's an interesting subject, military history."

"It is." She's silent a moment. "Is that why you joined the military? Do you admire your dad in some way? Wish to live up to expectations?"

Alex must be talking to her, he thinks, files it away. How else would she know about his military past? "No. I did it 'cause I needed a job, and I _enlisted_ and went Army. I was a grunt, a nothing Private when I finished Basic. He was an officer. I did it to piss him off, not make him proud."

"Was he pissed off?"

"He died before I finished. Never did get to enjoy it." Tim raises his eyebrows. "Not much of a victory."

"A bit like cutting off your nose to spite your face."

Tim frowns.

"What wasn't much of a victory?" Alex appears in the doorway.

"I'll never tell," says Bridget and winks at Tim. "What the hell happened to you, Dr. Sullivan? You're late."

She uses Tim's knee to help her stand up, pats Alex's cheek and waltzes out.

"A bit eccentric," says Tim.

"And that's just a surface inspection. Uh...sorry, I'm late. I, uh..."

Tim interrupts the excuse. "Don't worry about it. I was plenty entertained. And anyway, what else do I have to do?"

* * *

Andy covers his window and bathroom mirror in toothpaste so no one will be able to see him. The nurses take his toothpaste away, so instead he covers everything in shit.

Alex is looking through a file when he steps into the room, slips and falls flat on his back. His vision fades out for a second and then Andy's peering down at him, grinning like a buffoon or a shark. Alex can't tell which so he gets up in a hurry, swaying, blinking away the stars. His hand hovers over the panic button on his belt but Andy's backing off, moving back into the room and curling up on his mattress.

Alex rubs his sore tailbone and looks around, hoping fiercely that he didn't slip in a pile of crap. He searches the room, finds a gathering of plastic cups under the sink and behind the toilet, each cup holding a bar of soap dissolving in water, no doubt stolen from the custodial staff. It's soapy goo that's covering the whole floor. It's treacherous, but sort of funny too.

"Andy…what've you been up to?"

"Keeps the dogs out." He says it loudly, like he's stating the obvious to an idiot.

"The locks on the doors keep the dogs out, Andy. You don't need to do this." Alex collects up the cups, walking carefully, and goes to find someone with a mop and bucket.

It's lunchtime when he's finished sorting out Andy, so Alex runs home to change his pants. He gets stuck in his apartment for a while fretting over the mess and the laundry that's piled up and leaves himself no time to eat. He spends the afternoon in an increasing and agitating state of hunger.

Sophia is back to not moving or talking at all. She stares right through him and it makes him feel empty – like a part of the room. He thinks it might drive him crazy given enough time. He brings her soup though it's pointless and talks to her though she never says anything back.

He bumps into Martha on his way to check in on Andy. She's carrying an apple and a cup of coffee and she has a way of smiling that stops you in your tracks, warms you right up.

"You look pale," she tells him, matter-of-fact.

"I'm just hungry, I guess. I, uh…missed lunch."

She gives him a stern look, tut-tuts, motherly, then says, "How's Tim doing – Tim Gutterson, our young veteran?"

Alex thinks about it, scratches his head and frowns. "He's doing okay. Why do you ask?"

"I don't know. There's something about that kid. He just got to me. Reminds me of someone."

"Yeah? Who? He's…" He stops as Martha's expression changes suddenly, catching something going on behind Alex's back.

She plants her hands on her hips, still holding a coffee and an apple, a rare skill, calls loudly, "Jackson Malloy, you put your clothes back on!"

Alex turns around, coughs into his elbow to cover up the laugh that escapes. Jackson is strolling down the corridor in the nude, a massive hard-on swinging back and forth, head held up high. He gestures wildly at Martha.

"And why would I do that?"

"Because I said so! Now, go on, put your pants on."

"You ain't the boss of me _, Martha!_ You ain't the boss of this here hallway. I can do as I damn well please."

She looks back at Alex who's fighting to keep a straight face, hands him her apple and gives him a pat on the arm. "Here, you look hungrier than I feel at the moment."

"Um, thanks." He nods toward Jackson who's continuing his leisurely stroll down the corridor. "You got this?"

"Yes, I've got this. Now, go on. Go eat something."

He takes the stairs down to the vending machines, pockets a Snickers bar and goes back up to the open ward. Tim's door is the only one that isn't closed. He's sitting on the bed reading. Alex knocks and invites himself in.

"Hey."

"Doc. You look different without your office."

The sarcasm hides his nervousness at the intrusion – Alex can see it in the rapid rise and fall of Tim's chest. He turns to the window to give Tim a chance to compose himself.

"You've got a good view. I can see my car from here. Mind if I sit?"

Tim shrugs, says, "A mid-blue 2010 Ford Taurus is not a view," and goes back to his book.

Alex feels a little threatened that Tim knows what car he drives until he remembers that Tim is in law enforcement in the real world and would notice something like that, a reflex. It gives him pause, though. He takes a seat eventually, winces at the stab of pain that shoots up his back when his butt touches and thinks 'coccyx' is an irritating little word for an irritating part of the body. He spells it out in his head; it takes him back to anatomy class in college when everything was still a promise.

He gets a raised eyebrow from Tim when he toes his boots off, ignores it, balances the apple on his knee and starts to unwrap his candy bar. He grins, absurdly pleased, when he sees what Tim's reading.

"Tao Te Ching, huh?"

"It's kinda preachy."

"Yeah, I suppose it is." He looks up to the ceiling, looking for words. "Uh…throw away holiness and wisdom and people will be a hundred times happier, right?"

Tim shakes his head, disagreeing. He closes the book and says, "Throw away morality and justice, and people will do the right thing." He makes a face. "'Course I'd be out of a job."

"See, it's sticking. I knew Jesse had terrible taste in literature." Alex chews for a while, feeling a bit less like he's looking up at the world from the bottom of a well. "Hey, I saw this thing last night. It was a reality TV show. I don't remember what it was called – something to do with law enforcement, I guess. Anyway, the guys were all US Marshals like you and they all kept stashes of candy and nuts and stuff in their cars. Do you really do that – spend a lot of time in a car?"

"Is this some kind of new therapy technique you're trying out?"

"No. This is my lunch break."

"Your lunch break? What time is it?"

"Just after four."

"Uh-huh. I've had quite a few lunches like that on the job. Maybe you should adopt some Marshal habits, stuff your pockets with candy and nuts and stuff."

"So you do stash crap in your car?"

Tim replies, serious, "Uh-uh, not _crap._ I pack cheese strings and apples and whiskey. But I'll eat just about anything, especially if it's lunch at four."

"Whiskey?"

Tim shrugs. "Or beer. Depends on the day, the temperature outside."

Alex pauses, gapes.

"Jesus, Alex, I'm kidding. After-hours only with the booze. You ever try making a 600-yard shot drunk?" Tim smirks. "I'm serious about the cheese strings though."

"Cheese strings. Healthier than Snickers, I guess."

"Yeah, just a bit."

"Um, I should probably get back to work."

"Probably."

Alex gets up and tosses the wrapper from the candy bar in the garbage bin on his way out the door.

Tim clears his throat, gives Alex a pointed look.

"What?"

"Dude, your shoes… Laces, remember?"

Alex chuckles and goes back to collect his boots, doesn't bother to put them on.

"Fucking hippie."

"Stay at the center of the circle, Tim."

Tim flips him the finger.

* * *

 


	11. Chapter 11

* * *

There's a routine now and Tim's resigned to it. He's done being angry about everything that's happened. It's too much work and the drugs don't encourage any kind of will. Now he just wishes everyone would go away and leave him alone. He curls up on the bed in his room and tries to read, ends up in the fetal position staring at something past the walls. He misses his bed, his couch, his desk even, all the places where he feels safe and comfortable, the places he's worn a spot in for himself. He wants familiar smells. He wants the lights dim and the noises muffled and no intrusions. He wants to be warm. He wants a drink or two or three. He wants his gun, any one of them would do, just for the feel of it in his hands. Nothing is familiar here; everything jars. Without carpets the sounds snap sharply off the hard surfaces and the hall lights are always on and countless times each day someone pokes their head in and pokes him with questions and he reaches for a sidearm that isn't there. He takes a fistful of his hoodie in one hand, brings it up and pushes it against his face and breathes in the scent of it. It's him; it's familiar and not.

He closes his eyes and hopes to drift off but the noise picks up out in the hallway, a wailing and crashing. Tim focuses his eyes again on the room and looks at his door. He's left it propped open as usual. The wailing is louder; somebody's upset. Tim sits up and drops his feet to the floor and stands up, decides to shut his door today. The noise is right outside and he feels like screaming himself. He slides the trash bin clear and let's the door go with a light push but it stops and comes back at him fast and one of the other patients, the one making all the noise, stumbles into his room.

"Oh God," he wails. "Oh God." He's bleeding and crying and he careens into Tim and falls to his knees. "Oh God."

Tim moves on instinct, grabs him and hoists him on his bed, his eyes assessing the damage. The blood is gushing from rough cuts on the man's wrists and Tim reacts, years of battlefield triage training. He pulls his pillow case off and rips it into two pieces and covers the wounds then clamps his fingers down hard on each wrist and yells for help.

"Medic!" They're already running, he can hear them but yells again anyway. "Medic!"

He reports calmly to the first person through the door in hospital clothing. "We got a bleeder. He's slit his wrists, bad."

There's a crowd of movement now and hands appear, cleaner hands than his, gloved hands, to take over the pressure on the makeshift bandages, and more hands pull him out of the way and he backs into the opposite corner of the room and squats down on the floor. The wailing continues and finally a gurney is wheeled in and the man is transferred onto it and the crowd leaves. Tim stays where he is, breathing hard, staring at what's left, a bloody floor and bloody sheets and his pillow, splattered, trampled. He gropes around on the floor beside him for his rifle. When he can't find it, he brings his arm up to his face again but there's blood on his sleeve, on his hoodie. His vision hazes and the room has been sucked dry of oxygen. He starts to panic.

* * *

Alex twists his fingers around his shirt sleeve to keep from biting a nail. He's trying his best to look assertive and calm like he can do this, like he's confident this is the right thing to do – stand here and watch this and be okay. He's not okay.

Sophia was sobbing when they brought her in, struggling, then she screamed, wordless and frantic and Alex wanted to stop the process. He can feel the sting of tears under his eyelids, the sympathy. She's mostly still now, strapped to the bed and sedated to keep her from hurting herself more. It's only he and one nurse left in the room and he's torn between wanting to give Sophia privacy, feeling like an intruder, and needing to be here for her, needing to witness this because this is all on him. It was never her choice.

Sophia's sitting upright. Her back is rigid, her sharp collarbone cruelly visible through the thin gown she's wearing. She's trembling, drug-hazed eyes darting around the room, pulling weakly and hopelessly at the restraints around her wrists. She's scared.

It's to keep her alive, he reminds himself over and over, give it a chance to get better. It's the right thing to do. _It's the only thing left to do._ But Sophia's mute terror seeps through and takes hold in his thoughts, fills the room and his head and crushes his emotions hard against his rational thinking. He can see the revulsion jolting through her as the nurse starts to force the tube into her nose. It's slick with lubricating jelly and some of it mingles with her tears and cold sweat and drips down her cheek and into her hair. She gags and swallows convulsively and the nurse tries to make her sip water from a straw to make it easier, but she won't drink and it spills down her chin too.

The nurse is talking to her constantly, meaningless and soft words, blue latex fingers stroking the bare part of her arm. Alex wants to tell her to stop. It's out of kindness, he knows, an impulse to comfort, but it's another touch Sophia hasn't asked for, another intrusion in her life, not the life she's chosen.

She doesn't want this. And Alex realizes then, he doesn't want this either. Today he thinks he should allow her a death; tomorrow he'll think she can't possibly know better.

He jumps when the alarm goes off. It's the open ward.

"It's just the open ward," he whispers needlessly to the nurse. "They can handle it. I can stay here if you need me to."

"No, no," she says back softly. "You can go. Sophia and I are fine."

_No, she's not,_ he thinks but backs out the door. Sophia doesn't look at him and he's out in the hall and feeling shamefully relieved to be free of the room.

He leaves the ward and stops to look out a window, to let his eyes and his mind get some distance and to collect himself. An orderly rushes past and Alex asks him what's going on.

"Suicide attempt," he says. "It's being dealt with. Pretty sure it's not one of yours."

Alex nods, then takes a couple of quick deep breaths and heads downstairs in case they need him.

"Jesus," he blurts out when he sees the blood trail on the floor in the hallway. He follows it with his eyes into Tim's room. He can hear voices inside, something slamming. A nurse hurries into the room and Alex finally moves, follows her in.

But the orderly said it _wasn't_ one of his.

He expects the worst and the room confirms it. It's like someone was butchered in here. He's surprised to witness Tim wrestling with two of the staff. That much blood loss, he should be on the floor. Alex watches, confused, as Tim swipes the legs out from under the larger of the two men trying to hold him. The nurse standing nearby with a needle poised backs up to get clear, slips in the blood and careens into Alex.

"What's going on?" Alex barks. "Tim… Tim! Stop! You're hurt. Let us help you."

"He's not hurt," the nurse explains breathlessly when she's got her balance. "He's just… Dr. Platt ordered a sedative."

The orderly still standing is trying to get Tim's arm behind his back to restrain him and Tim moves instinctively with the pressure and spins away and free and behind a chair, pushes it between him and the others and breaks for the bathroom. Before he can get the door closed Alex, closest, scrambles over and blocks it, a curse exploding from him when it slams on his arm. He pushes his way through and dodges a fist, pure luck that it hits the wall rather than his face.

Tim backs away, ends up in the shower, eyes wide and darting, chest heaving with the strain of fear, every part of him is screaming one thing – _escape._

Alex closes the door halfway. "Tim…" In close quarters, he gets a good look at his patient, comprehends now that this is an anxiety attack, a panic attack. "Tim, it's me – Alex." He holds both hands up, open, non-aggression, takes a small step toward the shower. "Hey, Tim…what's going on? Can you tell me where you are?"

Tim tries to get past and out the door but he's blocked by the two orderlies and backs up again into Alex. Alex moves out of his way.

"Tim…" Alex continues to speak calmly. "Tim, get behind me. You're safe here."

The familiar voice seems to get through the confusion and the offer of help is what he wants to hear and Tim slips past Alex again farther back into the bathroom, into the shower and crouches down on the floor.

"I lost my rifle," he hisses, gasping for breath.

"That's okay, Tim. It's okay. I've got mine. I'll cover you."

Through the half-open door, Alex sees Dr. Platt appear behind the orderlies.

"How are we doing?" he asks, brusque and business. The nurse holds up the unused sedative, shrugs helplessly. "Come on, people. Get this done. He could hurt himself," he says, and pushes the door open.

"No…" Tim starts to stand when he sees the men in the doorway. He clutches his hands into tight fists, one bleeding where it hit the wall. "No."

The orderlies try to move in and even Alex gets claustrophobic in the tight space. He puts out both arms and stops them. "No," he says mimicking Tim in sympathy. He pushes them back. "No, just let me deal with this."

"Dr. Sullivan, I didn't realize you were in there." Dr. Platt means well, but he talks down to Alex from his experienced perch. "Let the boys in to do their job. Your patient's safety, and ours, is the primary concern here."

"No," Alex repeats himself. He can't watch them pin Tim down. He can't do this again today. He's had enough of it. He's had enough. "I'll handle it."

"Alex, don't make me go over your head on this."

"Fuck off!" Alex yells it, wrestles his anger down, says more evenly, "I'll deal with this. It's fine. He's my patient." Before anyone can react he closes the door completely and drops his forehead onto it, then turns around to assess the damage.

Tim is still standing, eyes wild.

"They're gone," Alex says, turns on the water at the sink and takes a drink from the tap, wipes his mouth. He moves closer to Tim and puts both hands out, settling. "Let's sit down, okay?"

Tim doesn't move.

"Hey, it's safe now. You're safe." He watches the labored breathing, the hitching with every intake of air. "Tim, slow down. Take a deep breath. Like me." He takes an exaggerated long gulp in and lets it out slowly, loudly, hand motions to demonstrate. "Tim, look at me. Do this." He repeats himself and feels stupid doing it. Tim's looking at him now though, his eyes riveted on Alex's.

Alex turns on the tap again and fills the cup that's by the sink, soaks a wash cloth. He sets them on the floor by the shower then sets a hand gently on Tim's shoulder. Tim twitches and tries to pull away but there's no place to go, he's in a corner, and Alex runs his hand soothing down Tim's arm then applies a little pressure when he gets to his elbow, pulling him back down onto the floor. Tim allows it, ends up cross-legged in the shower. There's a noise from his room, beyond the door, and he moves to get up again but Alex puts his other hand out, pressure lightly on Tim's shoulder keeping him down.

"It's just the, uh…the rest of the squad," Alex scrambles for all the war movie phrases he can remember. "They're, uh…setting up a perimeter, uh… Let me dress that wound for you." He picks up the washcloth and wipes at the scrapes and the blood on Tim's hands, realizes it's mostly dried and wonders again what happened. "Hey, uh… What's your name?"

"Tim."

"Yes. Good, I'm in the right room. And my name?"

Tim flicks his eyes to Alex then back to the door. "Alex."

"Bingo. Where are you, Tim? Can you describe the room?"

Tim looks around, squeezes his eyes shut. "Um, it's white."

"Yes, it's white. Boring white would be a good description or institutional white. Anything else?"

"It's tile."

"What shape?" He asks the questions without really thinking about them, trying to kick-start some rational thinking in Tim's brain.

"Um, square. It's square. Bathroom."

"Yep. What are you wearing?"

Tim looks down at his clothes, his breathing slowing finally, still hitched. He brings up a hand and wipes at the blood on his hoodie. "That's blood."

Alex is afraid he's made a mistake drawing Tim's attention to his blood-drenched clothes.

"Shit." Tim wipes at it frantically.

Alex puts his hand back on Tim's shoulder. "It's okay. We'll get it cleaned. You're okay."

Tim pulls at the sweater, pulls it off and drops it. "Shit. That's not mine. It's not mine. I didn't do anything."

"No, you didn't do anything. Do you have another sweater to put on?"

"I don't…I don't think so. I don't know."

"I'll look for you. It's okay. Are you cold?"

"No," says Tim, but he's shaking.

"Would you like me to see if I can get that cleaned?"

"I like that sweater."

"Yeah, I know. You wear it a lot. What color is it?"

"Gray."

"Yes, it's gray. And you're safe here."

"Is he okay?"

"Who?"

"That guy. The guy who… The blood."

"I don't know," Alex answers truthfully.

Tim looks around the room again. "Shit. I kinda freaked out."

"It's okay, uh…that was freak-out worthy. Most people would've _passed_ out at the sight of all that blood."

Tim stares at Alex's face, his breathing still labored. He draws his knees up and wraps his arms tightly around them and puts his head down. Alex watches the rhythm of the breathing and waits. Eventually Tim lifts his head again.

"I don't want any more meds, okay? Please? No more meds. I can't think. I don't react right. I'm vulnerable. Do you understand?"

Alex nods – he understands. It's who Tim is, the soldier, the Marshal, alert. You can't be alert sedated. "Alright," he says calmly, squeezes Tim's shoulder and pats it. "Alright. We'll get you off the sedatives. And I, uh, won't let them give you a dose now. I promise, okay? But you've got to trust me. You're safe here."

Tim is looking at him intently. "You promised. You remember."

"Yes, I did. Uh, heh…don't make me regret it though."

"Jesus, I just want to get out of here."

The door opens and Alex leaves his hand on Tim's shoulder, a weight. He feels Tim jump, feels the tension underneath. "It's alright. I told you. You're safe here."

It's Bridget. She's the senior psychiatrist on staff today, the one Dr. Platt has gone complaining to. She's peering around the door. She looks them over then winks at Alex and smiles for Tim and disappears. Muffled voices slip in under the door and then disappear too. Under his hand, Alex feels Tim take a shuddering but long breath and he watches him reach a shaky hand out for the cup and drink some water.

Alex finds it surprisingly calming sitting on the floor in the bathroom. He leans his head against the shower stall and sighs. He's content to wait it out, lets the time drip past.

Tim looks exhausted. He covers his face with both hands. "Fuck. What's wrong with me?"

"Nothing. You're tired of holding it all in, Tim. That's all."

"Oh. That's all." Tim huffs behind his fingers and drops his head back onto his knees.

* * *

 


	12. Chapter 12

* * *

It's ten o'clock again and Tim shuts the door to Alex's office and stands there turning the voice recorder over and over nervously in his hands. He looks tired, pale, more skittish than he has in a while. Yesterday was a reality check for them both and Alex wonders how far back it's set them. He gives Tim a quick smile that isn't returned, decides the air needs a little loosening so spews some nonsense, something embarrassing about himself, an equalizer.

"I, uh…I overslept this morning. I was really late and in a hurry and there's this old beer bottle that I've been using for cigarette butts – I used to have a bunch of ashtrays but they kept getting lost... Anyway, uh…I quit smoking about a week before you arrived and I haven't gotten around to throwing out the bottle and it was starting to stink. I figured I'd grab it and toss it on my way out, you know? So I grabbed my stuff, I was in a hurry, and I tripped over a magazine and dropped it. Stupid. It broke, of course, spilled out all over my living room floor, the carpet too. What a mess. You know what really pissed me off, though? I was standing there in this, uh…this disgusting puddle of stale beer and old cigarette butts, and all I could think about…was how badly I wanted a smoke."

Tim stares a moment, lips pressed tight, then says, "I quit drinking about the same time you quit smoking. Difference is I didn't have a choice. Buck up."

He strides purposefully over and pulls his chair from against the wall, sets it directly in front of Alex's desk and sits down, leans forward engaging, finally engaging. "I remember a school, okay? I remember being at an abandoned school." He sets the recording device on the desk, taps it with a finger. "Art was there. Raylan was there." He looks earnest. "Am I allowed to have visitors? Has anyone come by?"

Alex considers the information, stores the hinted possibility of alcohol abuse away for later, something to tackle in a future session. He thinks about his smoking habit, thinks _choices are nasty little fuckers_ and realizes when he hears Tim huff that he's spoken the last bit aloud.

"Sure are," says Tim, slouches back thinking about some of his own choices.

Alex pretends that he meant to speak his mind, shares a grim chuckle with Tim while he regains his focus. "A school? Uh…yes, visitors are absolutely allowed on the open ward. Art Mullen, Chief Deputy. I spoke to him once here in the office and then practically every day on the phone since you were admitted. He's, uh…he's a formidable character."

Tim frowns, his hands going quickly, roughly through his hair. He looks suddenly upset.

Alex catches the change, makes an assumption and hurries to add, "Tim, everything that happens in here, anything we discuss, is strictly confidential. I wouldn't… I _can't_ tell him or anyone else anything. He was, uh…pissed about it. He yelled at me."

Tim's withdrawing; Alex watches it as he talks, watches as Tim pushes his chair back, draws in tight, arms crossed again, aggressively defensive.

"Did you want me to call him and…?"

"No." Tim cuts off the question, shakes his head for emphasis.

"Is there someone else you'd like to…?"

"No. I'm fine. Forget it."

"Goddammit, Tim!" Alex finally gives his frustration some air. "Jesus, what is it with you? We can sit here and stare at each other and avoid talking about anything that upsets you for an hour a day for as long as you want – I'll be here – but I'd rather you figure this out. I'd rather we get you past all this. I want to see you get the hell out of here. But we can't do that if you clam up every fucking time you don't like what I've got to say!"

Tim is mute, staring at a spot on the floor.

Letting out a quiet growl, Alex takes his glasses off, tosses them carelessly on his desk and slumps back in his chair. He drops his head back too and covers his face, rubs it hard then grinds the heels of his hands into his temples. He sighs heavily, leans forward again on his desk and holds up his head on an elbow. He's caught, torn between wanting to drag a reaction out of Tim and being afraid to push and trigger a further retreat, and he's embarrassed too, about his outburst. Trying to keep any emotion out of his voice, he picks up the session where they left off.

"So, uh…it's an abandoned school and Art's there. Who's Raylan? Another Marshal?"

Alex's attempt to reopen the discussion seems to stall at the edge of his desk and drop. It's like Tim's watching it all the way down, watching it flop to the floor. The clock hand slams to the half hour and a door slams in the hall outside the office.

Tim's head jerks up with the noise. He sits a little straighter, watches the door intently for a moment then loosens slightly, tilts his head and studies Alex's face. His mouth twists and his eyebrows draw down; he's working up to something. It's a thick Alabama accent he puts on when he says, "Shit, Alex, and I thought you were just punching the clock. You really do care."

It's a joke, but there's no humor in the tone. Tim takes a deep breath and stares off into a corner.

Alex is done talking. He can wait it out today. _They're still paying me,_ he thinks.

"Raylan," Tim says finally, slowly, "is a cowboy." He looks again at Alex then starts rubbing a callus on his index finger. "Look, I'm afraid of what people are gonna think when they find out I'm in a psych ward. So Art knows, huh?" He nods an affirmative to his own question, resignation. "You know, if we're gonna start yelling, I'd like some bourbon. I yell better when I'm drunk." He wets his lips. "And I talk easier too."

"As much as I bet we'd both enjoy drunk therapy…I'm all out of bourbon. Actually, I never had any to begin with."

"Oh, now, there's a habit you need to pick up."

Alex gives Tim a flat look. "I'm trying to get rid of bad habits, not pick up new ones."

"What would give you the idea that bourbon is a _bad_ habit?"

"Tim, enough. Give me something to work with here. Who are these people that you worry about…about finding out you're here, apart from Art and the, uh…the cowboy?"

"The cowboy and the chief." Tim seems stuck on the thought, tackles the question wrong. "They don't know, alright? Nobody there does. Do you understand?"

Alex shrugs, shakes his head.

Tim sighs, defeated. "I don't know how Art'll feel about all this. Honestly, that worries me most. I mean it's his ass if I fuck up, right, so I'd think he'd be anxious to get me transferred out maybe. But where would the Marshals Service put me after this? And Raylan, well, as long as it's not affecting his day I don't think he gives a shit about anything." Tim smiles. "Rachel, I think she'd bring me water if I was thirsty. She's that type." He looks back at Alex. "But the guys, they'd get it. They'd cover for me. I've done it for them."

"The guys?"

"My buddies from the Rangers. Shit, they're all dealing with something. I thought..." He shrugs now, looks briefly up at Alex again, gauging. "Too bad about the bourbon. I'll give you some money and you can get me some – sneak it in." He entices with a grin.

Alex meets his eyes, mirrors the grin. "I will not be your dealer, Tim."

"It was worth a try."

"You know, the impression I got from your Chief is that he's anxious to get you back, not transfer you out."

Tim drops the grin. "We'll see."

"Hey," says Alex, reaches down and pulls up a shopping bag. "I almost forgot. Martha heard about what happened yesterday. She took it home last night, got the stains out." He produces Tim's ragged hoodie with a flourish, tosses it over.

Tim catches it, holds it up. "Huh." An honest and tentative smile graces the room. Tim looks embarrassed to be so happy about it – it's just a sweatshirt. He squeezes it tightly with both hands.

* * *

Alex starts his afternoon rounds on the closed ward. Sophia is always first. Something crunches under his shoe when he steps into the room. It's part of a fingernail. There's blood on the wall. She's wedged herself into a corner like a spooked raccoon, the shadows around her eyes enhancing the impression. Her hands are bleeding and she's pulling at her hair, pulling it over her face, a veil, smearing her cheeks red in the process. Martha is kneeling in front of her, a tray with cotton swabs and disinfectant on her lap.

Alex takes it all in, takes a deep breath, then another one. "What happened?"

Christina, who's standing close to the door, clears her throat. Alex turns around to face her. She's pale, mascara smudged. "I just stepped out for a minute. She was asleep…"

"You left her alone!?"

There's a tense moment when he can feel the argument build up steam like a kettle, threatening that shrill shriek when it reaches the boiling point, but it's all cut short when Martha gets in between them and gestures for Christina to leave. She puts a latex gloved hand on Alex's shoulder. "She was scratching the wall. It looks a lot worse than it is but we're going to need to clean those fingers. Maybe you could talk to her while I work?"

She states it like a request but Alex knows better. He nods and sits down on the floor so he's not looming over his patient. "Hey, Sophia, what's going on?"

Her voice is thin, raw, and it's a shock to hear it. "They keep touching me."

Alex takes another steadying breath, rubs a hand across his face, searching for something to say to reassure and coming up empty. She's got bruises around her wrists, souvenirs from the nasogastric intubation. The irrational part of his brain is screaming at him – _it's all your fault._

"Would you let me take a look at your hands?"

She replies sharply, metal on metal, a car wreck. "Tell them to stop touching me!"

Sophia's voice is still scraping the inside of Alex's head hours later. He's sitting on his couch in his apartment trying to tune her out. He wasn't planning on working tonight too, but he needs to replace her with something else so he picks up the recorder that Tim left him that morning hoping there's something interesting enough on it to distract him. He slides off the couch and lies out on the carpet then turns the recorder on and sets it on the coffee table. He finds he listens better with a different perspective on the world, looking at the ceiling and the underside of the table and the couch, everything a little skewed, off normal so he can't phase out so easily. Tim's voice sounds flat – maybe it's the recorder though likely not – but at least the edges are smooth. At least the words don't hurt.

"It's better for thinking with no one in the room looking at me. I guess that's why you have me doing this?

"There's a guy on this ward – God, I can't look at him – he left his kid in the back of his car and went to work. He forgot about him. He forgot about him and the kid died from hyperthermia. He fucking _forgot_ about him. I can't stop thinking about it. He keeps cornering people and explaining it. Jesse says it's not uncommon, perfectly caring parents being so tired and just going about their lives and distracted and one day they do the same thing they've always done – so routine that when they miss the stop at the daycare, thinking about a sales call or something, they don't even notice. They just mechanically go and forget. I can't stop thinking about it. It makes me so fucking mad, it's so pointless. I can't imagine…

"I saw some kids dead in Afghanistan. I saw a few. I've seen one or two on the job here.

"I can't stop thinking about it. It's hard to shut that kind of shit off.

"That poor fucking guy. They moved him after what happened. I am so fucking relieved. Maybe now I can stop thinking about it."

The recording clicks off there, picks up later.

"Hey, Alex. So, I remember something, I think, from that day at work. At least, I think it was that day. It came to me last night after everything. Maybe it kick-started something, that whole scene. Whatever. I remember having some breakfast with Rachel. We went to that coffee place around the block and bought stuff to take with us and we ate in the car. We were driving somewhere early, but…I don't think we actually got there. Art called us back. Anyway, I don't remember getting there, wherever it was we were going."

His voice gets a little sharp then.

"I sound like a fucking school kid. _I don't remember._ What happened to your homework? _I don't remember._ Where's your jacket gone? _I don't remember._ Why are you in the hospital? _I don't remember!"_

There's some shuffling, a deep breath in and out. "I was always late for school as a kid. I hated school."

There's another break. Alex stops the recording and makes some notes, messy scribbles lying on his back using a pencil. He starts the recording again.

"Hey Alex, I remembered something else when I woke up this morning. I think it's coming back. I remember a school. And I had my rifle. I think I'm starting to remember it all – unless maybe I was dreaming. The windows were broken on the building and the grass was long. I don't think it was being used anymore. It looked abandoned. Art was there. Maybe it'd be okay if he came by and I could ask him about it. I don't know, maybe I'm just remembering that school where Raylan hid out with Drew Thompson. It was big though, that school, a two-story. This one's smaller, single story. It's definitely not a high school, the place I'm thinking of.

"I remember it right, I'm sure. It was definitely a school. I'm behind the SUV. I'm pretty sure Art's there. And I have my rifle. I think Raylan's there, too.

"Fuck, I feel like I'm playing a video game and I have no peripheral.

"Was there grass? Or was it just dirt and…? Maybe I'm mixing it up with that place in Logar? My spotter was there. Shit, I think I am mixing it up. Never mind."

* * *

 


	13. Chapter 13

* * *

A number of patients are gathered in the common area watching a European football match when Alex gets to the end of his morning rounds, finishing at the open ward. Three of the men are in a heated argument about which team has the better players and if money really _is_ everything when it comes to sports. Alex steps into the middle of it, trying to calm the tone and turn the volume down by making a joke. He finds out the score and the argument picks up where it left off the minute he steps away.

Tim's door is open again, still. Alex knocks, waits, waits, finally peeks his head around into the room. Tim has earbuds in, deaf to the world, looking more himself with his hoodie back on.

"Hey," Alex says loudly.

Tim starts, jerks his head up and yanks one of the earpieces out quickly. _"Fuck!_ Alex, don't do that! I don't think all the therapy in the world could get rid of my startle reflex. You're lucky I'm not carrying, I might've fucking shot you in the face."

Alex chuckles, then stops when it dawns on him that Tim is probably serious. He swallows the smile, pulls up a chair. "What are you listening to?"

"Are you seriously going to psychoanalyze me based on my consumer preferences?" He turns off the music and pulls the other earbud out and tosses the lot shakily, angry, onto his pillow. He runs a hand over his face, gestures at the iPod. "Jesse suggested maybe if I smothered out all the hall noises it might not bother me so much. It's not working. I get so fucking tense thinking about what I _can't_ hear." Tim drops his head back on the wall, takes a deep breath trying to calm himself.

Alex plunks down onto the chair, smiles in sympathy. "It wasn't a bad suggestion. Can I see your playlist?" When Tim frowns and rolls his eyes, Alex adds, "I'm just curious. I'm in a rut. I, uh…need some new music."

Tim looks doubtful. "What do you like?"

"Uh…I grew up listening to Motown. I'm a big Chilis fan and I fed on grunge for a while."

"You wouldn't like this stuff." It's a dismissal.

Clearly sympathetic isn't working so Alex tries a different approach. "Don't be an asshole. What were you listening to just now?" He reaches out a hand, gimme, gimme.

"'Higher Ground,'" Tim says, but doesn't oblige the grasping wriggling fingers.

"I love Stevie Wonder – he got his start in Motown."

"This is a cover. Kinda southern rock."

Alex digs into his pocket and pulls out his iPod. "Trade? I got some stuff on here that you might find a bit more relaxing than CCR. Uh…there's some Bach cantatas, some Tool, Radiohead. Thom Yorke can drive you crazy after a while but there's something kinda rhythmic and soothing about his whining."

"He can drive you crazy, huh?" Tim raises his eyebrows at the choice of phrase.

Alex doesn't let it embarrass him. "You should be immune." He tosses over his iPod.

Tim grins for the humor, catches the device, leans over for his and makes the trade.

Alex is pleased – it shows on his face. He starts scrolling through Tim's music library. "Thanks," he says on the way out the door. He pops his head back in. "See you in a bit. Uh…you might want to stick to just one ear." He points. "That way you can take advantage of the repetitive patterns in the music to calm your brain but you can still be aware of your surroundings."

"Okay, yeah, sure."

"If you accidentally kill someone while you're listening, we can blame Thom Yorke."

"Brilliant plan, Sigmund."

Alex plugs in his earbuds as he walks the hall to his office, hits play and listens and stops and smiles. It's a decent cover.

* * *

Tim's room is different from all the others on the floor. He rearranged the furniture after the first day so that his bed is behind the door. He sleeps a bit better that way. He keeps the door propped open with the garbage bin most days and sits on his bed reading or just sits, out of sight of the rest of the ward, up on the end behind the door. He leaves it open because he prefers to hear what's going on in the hallway. The surprise of someone walking unannounced into his room the first week was hard on him and he doubts he'll ever get used to the lack of locks, the lack of privacy, the lack of security. The adrenalin spike pushes hard against his drugged sluggishness and leaves his heart racing and his head pounding. He knows it's the medication – everything takes more time so he's slow reacting and it scares him, leaves him always nervous when he's here alone. With the door open he can at least hear someone approaching, and that little extra breathing room is all he needs to dismiss the threat or work up some level of alertness without the exploding heart.

He reminded Alex of his promise to get him off the medication in their session the morning after his panic attack. Alex looked reluctant but agreed with a caution.

_You can't just stop, Tim. We have to bring you off them gradually._

Tim argued that he'd just quit taking the pills and what could anyone do about it? He laughed at Alex's panicked look.

_Don't! Just trust me. It could ramp up the anxiety and drop you right back into another psychotic episode. You don't want that._

No, he doesn't want that. He takes his pills and his hands still shake and he still can't react the way he needs to. This morning he's thinking maybe something in the medication makes him more pliable – he can't believe he just accepted Alex's argument for not going cold-turkey.

Alex lent him another novel, the one he's reading now. He's read it before and that's perfect because he can lose himself in the words without having to focus. It's a good one, "Ender's Game," and he remembers enough of it from reading it before all this happened that if his mind wanders and he misses a paragraph or two, it's no loss. The sequel is waiting for him among the pile of books in Alex's office but Tim's not in a hurry to get to it, already on his second pass through this one and content with it as a distraction. Maybe he'll trade it in at the end of the week.

He hears footsteps and his eyes lift off the page and he focuses on them, two people but on the far side of the hallway. They're coming his way, maybe Jesse and Alex for his ten o'clock but it seems too early, and when they cross over near his door he's already on his feet, as alert as he can manage.

Jesse peeks his head around the door.

"Hey bro', you got a visitor."

He pushes the door wide and smiles wide with it. Art Mullen is standing behind him. He looks nervous.

Tim wants to run and hide but his feet don't cooperate. He berates himself – _buck up, asshole –_ and forces a smile.

Art grins with relief, steps past Jesse and pulls Tim into a bearish hug. Tim's not expecting it, almost chokes on his fears and embarrassment, his heart pounding. He can't look at Art when he finally pushes him out to arms' length to study him.

"Jesus Christ, Tim, you scared the _shit_ out of me. Goddammit! And Leslie would string me up if she heard me cursing like this. You little shit, you do this again and you're fired. I almost had a heart-attack. When you get back, you're on prisoner transport duty for the remainder of your career and don't even think about applying for a transfer because I won't sign it. You're stuck with me so I can punish you till you die and go to hell. Did it ever occur to you to just ask for some vacation time? This princess-fucking-Daisy melodrama shit is working up a fire and brimstone bit of acid indigestion in my gut that I may never recover from."

Jesse's wearing a full-blown clown grin by now, salutes from behind Art's back and disappears down the hallway.

Dropping his grip on Tim's arms, Art kicks the bin out from the door so it shuts tight then he pulls up a chair and sits. "You're killing me. You've lost weight and I've gained it. How's that fair?"

Tim sits down on the bed, tucks his heels up on the frame and his hands underneath his legs to hide the shaking and he looks like a kid doing it. Art smiles sincerely finally, a little sad, and Tim looks away again.

"You okay, son?"

"I'm getting there." His voice sounds strange to him, not the voice of a Deputy US Marshal.

Art peers into all the corners of the thin face, shakes his head. "I've been read the riot act by your doctor – no questions, no pushing, no prodding. Like I'd take orders from someone half my age, anyway. But listen, Tim, you just take the time you need and then get back to the office. You're missed."

Tim has thought plenty about going back to work but now that he's faced with it, it seems impossibly far, too far to imagine getting to today. "I don't know if I can come back."

Art shrugs – there's thirty years of experience in the business rolling up with the shoulders. "It's too soon to make statements like that. You think you're special? You think you're the first marshal to be sitting on a strange bed thinking those thoughts? Wait and see how you feel later. I'll keep the rifle safe for you and your badge is on ice. I pull it out and buff it daily."

Tim grins, finally feels like he means it. It lasts long enough to give him a bit of a boost, but it's a hard come down. "I don't remember anything that happened." He's frowning now.

"And I'm not supposed to talk to you about it, either." Art looks to the window then back, studies the young man who is his responsibility and thinks maybe he pushed too hard, maybe he missed signs of what was coming. "I think it's a lot of bullshit though, so I am going to tell you one thing." He leans forward. "Tim, nothing bad happened because of anything you did or didn't do, alright? In fact, nothing at all happened." He understands the fear, being a Marshal, a man with a gun all day every day. "It was weird. You just...froze, went vacant, like Dewey Crowe but without all the yabbering."

Tim smiles for the joke.

"You're good, Tim, good with me. We're just waiting on you. I suspect you're the only one with any doubts."

It should make him feel better, but Tim's surprised to discover it doesn't. He feels, if anything, more culpable and wonders why. "Am I allowed to talk about it?"

Another shrug from Art. "I don't see why not. To hell with them anyway."

"Were we at a school?" He realizes it's a question and rephrases it so it doesn't put Art in the awkward position of answering or not. "We were at a school – you, me and Raylan."

"That's right."

"Then something happened and I had a... They say I had a psychotic break or something."

Art sits back, wrinkles his face. "Is that what they're calling it?"

Eyebrows go up in answer. Tim takes a deep breath and looks around the room, anywhere but at Art though it's good to have him here. There's a moment, brief, elation, the thought that Art is here to take him home. It goes as fast as it came.

"Nothing happened?" He's begging.

"Nothing happened, Tim. Seriously, you just froze up. There was a situation but it had nothing to do with you or what happened to you. In fact it was Raylan's situation. He just called us in to help and as it turns out, he didn't need us. It was handled peacefully after..." Art gestures vaguely at Tim. "Believe it or not, we're a pretty competent Marshals office even without you."

"What if it had happened when you needed me?"

"Tim, you've been right there doing the right thing every time we've needed you. When the doctors say you're okay to come back to work, I'm gonna believe them."

"What about everybody else?"

"Like I said, you're the only one with doubts."

Tim shakes his head, chews a lip. "I still don't remember much of anything from that day."

The look that comes over Art's face is comforting for Tim, familiar; his boss is puzzling a mystery, on the case.

"I swear to you, Tim, _nothing happened._ Could this be from your time in Afghanistan? Something old that got dragged up, something from before you became a Marshal?"

"I guess, maybe."

"Probably, likely." Now Art's shaking his head, thinking still, apologetic that he can't help more. "I'm sorry I can't tell you anything else. Not much to tell, really. You'll figure it out."

"What if I don't?"

"You'll figure it out." Reaching behind him, Art drags the bag over that he carried in with him, dropped on the floor. "Leslie sent you some stuff. She says hi, get better, come for dinner."

"Cookies?"

"I'm hoping she slipped some porn magazines in here."

"She's found your stash, huh?"

"Very funny."

* * *

 


	14. Chapter 14

* * *

"Tim? You okay?"

Tim doesn't bother knocking – he stopped sometime the first week – slumps into Alex's office and crumples into his chair against the wall. Walking wounded. "No, I'm not okay. Fuck. I didn't think I was supposed to get any more nightmares on these drugs."

Alex opens the file out of habit, checks, but already knows the dosage – he ordered it.

"Uh…the medication would have an effect on the frequency and intensity of your nightmares. I lowered the doses quite a bit after you asked me to get you off..."

"Well, you asshole, you might've warned me this would happen."

Alex leans forward in his chair, tilts his head a little and frowns, a silent apology. "What did you dream about?"

"Nothing, it's just…" Tim stops, raises an eyebrow and huffs when he recognizes the look Alex is giving him, the _I'll-decide-what's-important_ look. "It's an old nightmare, okay? I just haven't had this one in a while." He scratches his forehead, drops his arm and works his hands together. "Had a cigarette yet? I haven't had a drink yet."

"Good for you."

"I'm not trying to be _good._ They don't serve here, remember? If they did, I'd be drinking." He licks his lips, smirks when he catches himself doing it.

"Well, I haven't had a smoke. I've been saintly. There's, uh…a space, right between my middle and index finger that feels…really fucking empty." He holds up his hand, two fingers, to demonstrate, then points one at his patient. "You're dodging my question."

Tim's eyes drift around the room. He knows he can't get away with not discussing the nightmare, so he starts. "It's an old dream, like I said. Pretty much the same every time. I'm alone… Hey, did you see the pilot for "The Walking Dead"? You know how the Sheriff, Rick, wakes up and there's bodies everywhere. It's like that, but without the zombies. I keep seeing people and they're dead before I can do anything and it just goes on and on, and I'm hoping to find someone alive, and sometimes it's a face I recognize, sometimes not. I'm in a building." He shrugs. "That's it, really. You see? It's nothing. Typical war shit." He grabs himself forcefully, both arms.

"Typical war shit… I have no idea what typical war shit is. Why don't you tell me about it – war, I mean. What's it like?"

"Fucking Disney World, what do you think?"

Alex looks embarrassed and Tim feels bad about it. He starts again, "Sorry, look, it's just I get asked that so often. What do people expect me to say? I dunno. It's, uh… There'll never be anything like it again in my life, everything else pales, good or bad. Mostly, I just think back on the funny shit, the good shit that happened. And there was lots of that. The other stuff, you just…you just don't think about it." He shrugs and his eyes wander the room again. "Imagine going to the moon, actually walking on the moon or Mars and coming back and talking about it. What would you say that would make any sense to anybody? Where's your reference? _It was fucking cold, man, and rocky._ Nobody would get it, not really." He shrugs again, helpless. "You don't even get time to figure out for yourself how you're feeling about it all while you're there. And thinking back on it is just… I just _don't_ if I can help it. For one thing, there's things that I miss, really miss, like the guys and the rush." He smiles faintly. "It's something when you're _on_ and you know your job and it's… It's all so clear when you're in it, so sharp, and also such a fucking mess of, um…a mess to try and sort out, you know? It's hard to sort it out in your head."

"The stuff you think back on, the funny shit that happened, the things you miss – what's the first thing that comes to mind?"

Tim blinks once. "Toad. Toad getting knocked over by that goat." He grins, snorts. "It butted him right in the ass, knocked him flat on the ground. Fuck, we laughed. It hurt laughing that much." He covers his face with his hands, pulls them away. His hands seem to pull away the grin with them.

"You alright?"

"Yeah." It's defensive.

"Toad…quite a nickname. How'd he get it?"

Tim looks away, down, starts a familiar pattern of pulling at the cuffs on his hoodie. Alex has hit on something.

"Tim…these things, the memories of all the shit that hurts you, I get that it feels better to not talk about it or even think about it. It's, uh…basic human impulse to flinch from pain, right? But…I want you to do it anyway. I think it's important that you talk about it and you let it hurt. I promise you, it'll get easier. Putting words on it all…it'll give you a way to control it, to, uh…sort out the mess."

"Toad is a mess that'll never get sorted out."

"How'd he get the nickname?"

"I read that toads are smarter than frogs 'cause they look before they leap – I read it in an article…I don't remember where. Anyway, this guy was so cautious, so I started calling him Toad. Everybody picked up on it." There's a long pause. "He did one stupid thing." Tim holds up a finger. "One stupid thing. He took off his helmet after a mission to scratch his head…thought he was good, you know…took a round…" Tim points to the back of his skull. "Enemy sniper. I tracked him down. Shot the fucker. Toad survived but…"

Alex waits for more, for Tim to continue. He doesn't. "Why'd you stop there?"

"Don't be an asshole. The guy's fucking brain damaged, alright? He'll never be right again. I went to see him…"

"What was that like?"

"Scary," Tim says. It comes out like a bullet and then Tim twitches, even his face twitches.

Alex doesn't think Tim expected that answer. It's like it caught him off guard, like it came out of a part of him he didn't know existed. He chances a quick look at his doctor. Alex catches the look, the embarrassment.

"Tim…it'd be really fucking strange if it wasn't."

* * *

It's blindingly bright, the sunshine, so he's looking down, down at his feet. He's on a gravel road. It's dry, dusty, he's wearing boots. He tries squinting toward the sky, blue in a way that hurts, has to shade his eyes to see.

He's alone.

There's a noise like static on a radio. It's drowning out another sound – a voice, kids' voices, crying, but it's too dull to hear. Something glimmers below him on the ground. He licks his lips, looks, sees red strings of entrails spilling out from the bloated belly of a woman. His body feels cold then warm, beads of sweat breaking out through his skin.

There are corpses on the road in the dirt. He gags but he doesn't throw up. He can't.

He can't. It's too late. They're all gone and there's nothing he can do about it. He wants to scream, opens his mouth, angry, but nothing comes out.

Some of the faces are familiar. His daddy's there. His daddy never looked like that though. No, he was in a casket, calm and still, and Tim safe because the man was dead, not piss drunk or angry or picking fights that he couldn't lose. But he never had that fish-eyed stare – his eyes were closed – never had any flies crawling out from his nose and into his swollen slack mouth. Tim thinks that he's sorry, he's fucking sorry, but it's not his fault that it's like this. This is wrong. His daddy's eyes were closed in that casket.

The noise gets louder suddenly, buzzing like swarms of insects now, like drones. It's not safe. He has to get across the road and into the shade and the shadows. There's a building; he knows it, he's been there before. The sun won't be so bad in there.

The gravel crunches under his boots, he's slipping on pebbles and rocks, fumbling like he's drunk. His heart is racing. It shouldn't be this hard. _Come on, soldier. What's wrong with you? For fuck's sake, keep up!_ Daddy's watching from the road with his open, glassy, dead eyes. _Buck up and get 'er done!_

The building is broken stone, broken graffiti, gaping spray-painted faces staring at him with blacked-out eyes. There's just one body here splayed across the floor in a cloud of dust. There's been an explosion and the air hasn't settled yet. He knows this body too – it's a man he killed once.

It was a good shot.

The inside is a school, his school, his classroom from when he was little. The sun's still too bright pouring in through the collapsed roof and whitening the contours and edges out. Tim's eyes hurt. He thinks it isn't right to stand in here with his boots and helmet and rifle heavy in his hands. They're not allowed to wear their boots inside. The walls are blue. He looks away, down at the floor.

There's something there. He can feel his heart stop and the buzzing noise goes abruptly silent, the opposite of an alarm going off, deafening. It's a foot, small, a child's, pale and jagged around the thin bone sticking out. He drops to his knees, picks it up and holds it carefully like it's precious. There are more pieces spread out around him and he crawls through them, crawls through the dust and gravel gathering them all up because he has to put everything back together, all the pieces. He has to get them all back into one place. This was a person once.

This was a kid. It's him. He sees the hole in the sleeve; he knows that sweater.

He's crying now and it's impossible to see through the tears and the sharp light. He's scrambling on his knees, arms full of tiny body parts and they're slipping, he's slipping, and the floor is gravelly like outside but it's wet with blood and he's cold even though the sun is burning and he's drenched in sweat.

He'll put the body in one of the white boxes and then someone will know, someone will remember who this was and they'll feel like they have something whole to grieve over, if he can just find all the pieces, but he can't.

He can't. It's too late. He's too late and he screams, angry, screams until his voice breaks and his lungs give out.

* * *

There's light under the door from the hall and Tim is sitting up in bed, sitting quietly and still and staring at the thin glow, watching for feet, silhouettes. He's sure he yelled out loud at the same time he yelled in his dream – he can feel it raw in his throat – and he's worried now that they'll come and insist that he take something to help him sleep. But he's tired of dreamless sleeping, scared of dreaming, anxious sitting alone and awake in the dark, doesn't want to record the dream but that's what he has to do. He promised Alex, and anyway, he's tired of not knowing.

He reaches over for the recorder and fidgets with it, turning it around and around in his hand, wondering how to start this narrative. Who the fuck would want to listen to it? He's going to give Alex nightmares, or start him smoking again. Maybe he'll put it to Alex tomorrow, a deal – he'll start smoking and Alex can start drinking.

He turns the recorder on, begins, "Nightmare's back, you'll be pleased to hear." He speaks quietly. "It's always bright daylight and that's weird 'cause we did almost all night missions and I'm alone. It's Afghanistan – I can tell from the feel – and I'm on a road and…"

He talks for half an hour, describing details. It's a dream he's had so often that he can. He puts in every little thing he can think of then he gets to the room, the foot, and the end comes out in a rush. "And I pick up the pieces, put them in a box. That's it, really. That's all."

Tim turns off the recorder and goes through the motion of throwing it against the far wall, angry, but doesn't, drops it instead on the side table and lies down. Eventually he gets up and sneaks out into the common area, lifts a chair quietly into a shadowy corner by the window, sits still and unnoticed by the staff until morning.

* * *

 


	15. Chapter 15

* * *

"Hey, Alex." Tim tosses the recorder to his doctor, underhand lob, careless. He smirks when Alex fumbles the pass then disappears behind his desk to pick up the recorder from the floor. "So have you cheated yet – had a cigarette? Why'd you give up smoking anyway? What's the point? You really want to live to a hundred? I can't imagine what the fuck for."

The recorder has slid under the desk and Alex is down off his chair looking for it. Tim watches a minute then ambles to his regular seat and plunks himself down.

"I have a plan," he says, not giving Alex a chance to respond to his machine-gun questioning. "Let's talk about you today. I am sick and tired of me. Can we change the fucking channel, just for a bit?"

There's a loud sigh. "Fine. One question at a time though. I've got a headache."

"Okay." Tim narrows his eyes at Alex when he finally pops back up. "Are you hungover? 'Cause if you are, don't expect any sympathy from me. I'd be too fucking jealous."

"No. I think it's nicotine withdrawal."

" _That_ I'll sympathize with. We dipped all the time in the Rangers. I gave it up when I got out." Tim's gaze settles on the framed credentials hanging on the wall behind Alex. "So, why'd you become a shrink? It must get awful boring listening to other people's problems."

"Nah, it's alright. I just tune you all out, especially the nosy Marshals, and think about Star Trek. I mean, I became a shrink to earn a living, not help people. It's good money."

"You're so full of shit."

Alex can't argue with that. "It's amazing how transparent I can be when I'm full of shit. I must have see-through shit." He offers the comment with a lop-sided grin, leans back in his chair and looks out the window. Through the metal grate and outside there's a view of storm clouds and he thinks it's a lot of gray lately. He thinks there's a line here and he's about to cross it. He thinks, what the hell – it's gray on this side, looks gray on the other side too, but you never know until you've had a look. He thinks about Bridget's advice, steps over.

"I got into psychiatry because of my dad," he says. "I get to blame him. He, um…he was a cool guy, an artist. He had a tattoo parlor. Man, people would come from other _states_ just to get inked by my dad. He was kinda like a shrink too, you know? No matter who it was sitting in that chair, he'd get them talking. But he'd have these bad months. Every once in a while, he wouldn't…or couldn't get out of bed or eat or shower or, uh… And everything about him changed – how he talked, how he looked. Then those bad months just took over and he…he stopped bouncing back. All I could do was watch and I just… I felt helpless. I was a kid and I didn't know shit about clinical depression. Anyway, that's part of why I wanted to – I don't know – to make sense of it, I guess."

Tim's listening, looking at Alex a little differently. "Huh, the shit you don't know." He pulls on the sleeve of his hoodie, pulls it up to bare his arm. "You seen this one, right?" He points at the tattoo on his wrist, rifle and crosshairs. "Probably noticed it when you were poking me with needles – you've got _that_ in common with your dad – well, I got a few more." He pulls his hoodie right off and pushes up the sleeve of his t-shirt and reveals another tattoo on his shoulder, a decorated frame in ink, skulls and snakes in the design, with writing inside, names. He rubs a hand over it then through his hair then grins mischievously. "I got a couple more too, but I'd have to take off my shirt to show you and I don't want to turn you on. It might be embarrassing."

Alex realizes he's being teased like Tim would tease his Ranger buddies and it makes him feel good so he grins back, shrugs and starts to undo the buttons on his shirt. "Embarrassing for me or you?"

He's down to his t-shirt and the full sleeve tattoo covering his right arm is hard to miss, he mirrors Tim's move from before and pushes his shirt out of the way to uncover the owl that's taking up most of his shoulder, then he holds out the underside of his left arm, decorated by a skull. "This was my first. I was sixteen. It, uh…seemed like a good idea at the time. And this one," a string of bold font text running from his elbow to his wrist, "was a drunken mishap." Alex leans back in his chair. "And there's one more but…I prefer to keep my pants on at the office."

Tim's smiling again. "I got another on my chest and a meat tag too." He lifts his shirt, his name and blood type in ink, plain, on his ribs under his arm. "It's tradition, I guess, but from what I saw, kinda useless if you're blown to bits. I haven't got anything artistic like your owl. Your dad do that?"

"Uh…yeah, it's the only one I've got from him. It's his own design. He said he put the compass in the belly of the, uh…bird to remind me not to lose myself."

"Should've just got a tracking chip implanted in your ass. More effective."

They both chuckle. Alex buttons up his shirt, gets up from behind his desk and takes a seat beside Tim. "Next question."

"Coming over here to check out the view, are you? It's better from your side – you get the window."

Alex turns his head and considers it. "You're right." He turns his chair to face the world outside and slides over a table and props his feet up, gestures for Tim to join him. Tim does.

Tim's quiet, thinking, eventually he says, "I think I could've used a bird belly-compass over there. It's easy to get lost. It's easy to lose your whole self, inside and out." He frowns. "Do you think maybe that's part of my problem right now? I mean, how do you…? How do you…?" He makes vague hand motions, trying to fit something together in the air in front of him. "When you're back, how do you…? How long does it take to really _be_ back? It can't just happen the minute you step off the plane. It's like gearing down too fast, dropping from fifth to second, the engine can't mesh properly with the drive shaft. It screams at you. Sooner or later, it's gotta catch up with you. It wrecks your transmission."

Alex can't answer these questions. He waits.

"Especially when you do it over and over. You know how many times I went and came back?" Tim's getting emotional. "Fuck. The shit that…" He stops, reaches over for his sweatshirt and pulls it on. The office is cold in the gray light from outside. He starts fidgeting with a sleeve, looking intently past the grate on the window. "Can I go out?"

He looks over with the question, asking permission, eyes more torn-gray than the usual blue, mirroring the sky outside.

"The weather's kinda shitty…but yeah, sure, just take someone with you. Maybe Jesse, he's good company."

The wind picks up then, hammering the point that it's not a good day for strolling.

"I think my work jacket must be in the locker." Tim's watching the weather, thinking about locks on doors. "Would it…? I was…"

Alex looks over hoping Tim will continue.

Tim does but sidesteps. "Alright, question two – you're not from Kentucky, so what the hell are you doing here? People don't end up in Kentucky unless they're assigned here by the US Marshals Service or they like horses. There's not even a Major League baseball team in this state."

Alex bites a nail. It's a new habit, an ugly one that he needs to kill before it settles. He feels like he's about to fall without a parachute, uncertain how far to let this go. There are so many simple answers, safe ones, what he always tells people when they ask – that he moved here to do his residency, that he stayed because they offered him a job. It's all true but it's not the whole story and he thinks that maybe, maybe if he gives just this much more, if _he_ lets it hurt, then maybe Tim might be more inclined to do the same. It's a gamble.

"My sister died." He glances over at Tim, waits for a reaction and doesn't get one, so he continues, grasping for the right words. "I wasn't paying attention, wasn't _there_. I was…busy, I guess, for a long time. I was working nights – the, uh…scholarship to UCLA didn't cover more than tuition so I took these shitty jobs and I was looking after Dad, going back and forth to San Diego a lot, and I didn't… Well, after Emma…um…" He pauses, makes a conscious effort to keep his fingers away from his teeth. "It was easier for a while to get drunk and get laid than to worry about all the stuff I was supposed to worry about and then I just left – left it all behind. I, uh... I ran away and took the first job I could get as far from California as possible."

Tim's still quiet and Alex wonders if he's even listening or interested. Alex feels he's out there now, this is deep water and no land in sight and God knows what's waiting for him that he can't see yet. He shouldn't be talking about this with a patient. He doesn't talk about this with anybody. Mostly people just change the subject or say "that's too bad" or "you'll get over it in time" – empty platitudes. They can't make you feel better and it makes them feel useless so they throw the shit out there and who can blame them, really? What is there to say?

Tim does say something though and it's different.

"That's life, right – throws you a curve ball down and outside when you're set up for a high fastball inside, a strike and a miss and you can't ever get that pitch back to try again. You'd have set up different if you'd seen it coming."

Tim runs a hand over his mouth, pauses with it there. Alex thinks he looks like one of the three monkeys, 'speak no evil', and he, almost in sympathy, runs his hands over his eyes, unaware until he's doing it, 'see no evil.' He's just deciding to move on when Tim says something else.

"Did you get along, you and your sister? You like her?"

"Uh…well, we had to look out for each other a lot when we were kids. We grew apart but I still loved her…even when she made it hard to. Why?"

Tim sits up and rubs his hands on his thighs, worrying something. "I thought all you shrinks always asked about dads and shit, but you haven't yet so I'll save you the trouble. Mine was an asshole. He died when I was eighteen. I couldn't stand him and couldn't feel even a little bad at his funeral. I know my mom wanted me to. It just leaves a sour feeling, not caring. Maybe if I liked him I could've moved on to happy memories by now. So, if you liked your sister, hopefully you can move on to happy memories one day. But that's bullshit, isn't it? It's the bad memories that stick. At least that's been my experience." He looks briefly sideways at Alex, then away. "Sorry, I don't think I'm helping much. I'm sorry about your sister. It sucks."

Alex feels a twinge of guilt for putting Tim in an awkward position, talking about a death that's unrelated to him in any way. He feels a little bad too for already knowing about Tim's dad – Bridget told him about her conversation with Tim a while ago. He leans forward, trying to make eye contact but Tim's not making it easy. He's looking down at the floor.

"Yeah, it sucks. But talking about it helps. I should do it more."

"Subtle, Sigmund."

"I try." Alex smiles. "You should become a psychiatrist, Tim. I don't think what you're saying's bullshit. It makes sense about the memories. You know, I, uh…I really don't talk about this enough. You're only the second person in Kentucky now who knows about Emma." Again he tries again to catch Tim's eye. "Bridget, Dr. van Campen, she told me some things, your conversation with her, things about your dad. Do you want to talk about him?"

"Fuck." There's no energy in it. "No. The guy was an asshole. End of story."

Alex sits back again, decides to leave it at that – tackle it another day. He picks at a different loose thread. "Tim, how, uh…how many times did you go back…to Afghanistan?"

There's so much space all of the sudden, like an empty stadium. Alex doesn't think he's going to get an answer, glances at the clock to see how much time they have left. Some sessions just go like this, like you're just warming up and the first pitch has already been thrown and the game was lost weeks ago but you just don't know it. It's slipping from his grasp, something.

Tim shifts in his seat. The words are quiet. "Eight. I was going career, right, re-enlisted after my contract. It was different every time – some shorter, some longer, some fucking intense." Tim takes a long slow breath in, lets it out like smoke from a cigarette after a long day. "Eight."

Alex turns and watches the words drift to the ceiling and disappear. Something.

* * *

 


	16. Chapter 16

* * *

"You want to go outside? In this? Are you nuts?"

"This _is_ the psych ward."

Jesse gets dramatic. "It's a hurricane out there."

"You're definitely Air Force. You pussies would call off a bar crawl if it was spitting."

"You really want to go out?"

Tim's getting his energy back, almost drug-free. He's still tired but from lack of sleep not sedation. "I'm sick of being in here. You don't have to come."

"Well, actually, I do. Doctor's orders."

Tim's face gives away his thoughts on that. "I'm going out."

"Okay. Let me get an umbrella."

Just then the wind throws itself into the trees just outside the window and it does look like hurricane weather. Jesse looks out then turns to Tim and shrugs, gestures. "How about tomorrow?"

"What's the matter? Didn't put on your water-proof mascara today?"

Jesse huffs, stomps down the hall and returns a moment later with his jacket on and hands Tim his. Tim holds it up for inspection, POLICE US MARSHAL in large letters across the back. His determination falters; he's feeling funny about wearing it. The memories surface again suddenly, snapshots like before only clearer. He and Art standing behind the SUV, his rifle loose in his hand, they're watching Raylan talking to someone on his phone, someone in the building, an abandoned primary school somewhere outside of Lexington. There's a man in the school with a high-powered rifle. He's a threat. Tim remembers setting his own rifle across the hood of the car, settling into position, zeroing in on the muzzle break just visible peeking out of a window. _Do you have a shot?_ Art asks. Tim shakes his head. The man is behind the wall. He can't see him. He remembers now, he remembers saying that he wishes he had his M107 and some anti-armor rounds. _You could do that?_ says Art. _You could shoot him through the wall?_ Sure, with the right equipment. He's done it before.

He feels suddenly hot and cold.

"Tim, man, you okay? You look a little pale. Maybe we should stay inside."

Jesse's voice calls him back and Tim tries to remember what happened next but it's gone. He slips an arm into a sleeve then the other then zips up the jacket. It still fits.

"I wonder what the USMS regulation is for wearing this off duty. I'm probably not allowed."

"We could stay in then," Jesse says, hopeful.

Tim heads for the door.

Outside the wind whips around them and into every crack in their clothing. It's raining. It would be drizzle if it could fall straight but the wind won't allow it, sends it horizontally into their faces. Tim is reveling in it; Jesse is complaining.

"This is the worst fall in the history of this state. Can we go back in now, please?"

"Why don't I just run off, then you can go back in and say I gave you the slip?"

Jesse stops the whining to be serious. "Tim, if you want to go, then go. No one's gonna stop you."

Tim drops his head then lifts it again and looks around – the freedom seems a burden. He doesn't know if he could handle it. "How about we just walk to that tree and back?" he says, turns up his collar, stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets and starts off across the grass.

"Hopefully it won't fall on us and kill us."

"It'll never be that easy," says Tim.

They get back inside in one piece, dripping wet. Tim's thinking about the task that Alex has assigned him and misses what Jesse's saying when they're walking the halls.

Alex wants him to record an outline of each of his deployments. Tim's not sure it's going to be easy to do – everything's mixed together, one night mission with another. They're in no particular order in his head. He remembers one deployment particularly well because they were mostly bored, at least at first, positioned in a 'pacified' area for nine weeks shooting at a makeshift range and running PT exercises that inevitably degraded into full-contact football matches. A month in, someone up the chain of command decided to break out an intel party. They had missions almost every night for the last weeks of their stretch. That was his first sight of the opium fields, if he remembers it correctly, and they were beautiful that time of year. He saw a lot of action during that one, finished out the last three days on a cot at the nearest medical center, wretching his guts out from something he ate. He joined up with his platoon again at Bagram Air Force Base to ship home, pale and lighter and hungry. He was glad to see them, felt like he'd let them down and worried constantly. With the reception he got you'd think they'd been separated for years. That's just how it was.

He's trying to remember the name of the village that was nearby, near the poppy fields, when Jesse smacks his shoulder.

"You're not going to tell me, are you? What kind of a brother keeps something like that to himself? Lord help me, she's the perfect woman."

"What?"

"You have to introduce me. She's come here hoping to see you a bunch of times already, said she was coming by again this afternoon. It's your call if you want to see her or not but Dr. Sullivan said it might be a good idea."

"Who's coming?"

"Deputy Brooks. Mmm-mmm."

Tim stops dead in his tracks but his heart keeps running full out and he's finding it difficult to breathe without consciously thinking about it. "She's coming here? What does she want?"

"To say hi, bro." Jesse sets a hand on Tim's shoulder. "Hey, it's cool if you don't want to, but…" He does a little quick step, claps his hands together and bends his legs like he's genuflecting at a pew. "If you do, then you could introduce me. Is she married? God, that holster on her hip is…" He makes a funny squeaky noise.

"Rachel?"

"Her name's Rachel?"

Tim covers his face, turns and walks back the way they came, away from Rachel.

"Hey," says Jesse, catching up with him, hand out grabbing Tim's arm. "It's okay, man. You don't have to do this."

"But you should." Alex has appeared at the end of the hall, standing at the door. "You should talk to her, at least for a minute, just...let her see you're alright. She's, uh…she's called every day asking to see you. I think she's tired of talking to me."

Tim wants to crawl under the nearest bed. He's never been such a coward.

"You said she'd bring you water if you were thirsty. Your words," says Alex. "Maybe it's time you stopped guessing how people are going to react. How was it with Art Mullen?"

"Okay." His legs feel like rubber. _Stand fast, soldier._

* * *

He agrees to see her in the common area, not his room. He stands up when she walks in, bites down hard on the inside of his lip and pinches the skin on his arm to stop the emotions from escaping, knocking them back with hits of sharp pain.

Alex is right, she looks relieved to see him standing, stops and eyes him up and down. "Oh my God," she says slowly. "Has Art seen you like this?"

He's not sure what she means, looks down at his runners with no laces and wishes he'd left them in his room and come out in his socks.

"Tim, I'm going to recommend that you be allowed to come to work like this." She wags a finger up and down encompassing the hair sticking up, the well-worn hoodie, a favorite from down days in the barracks, threadbare and comfortable, his baggy sweats bulking out at the knees. "You look sixteen, tops. Just shave and you could go anywhere and no one, I mean _no one,_ would suspect that you are a Deputy US Marshal. And without the laces, it looks like you're fresh out of lock-up."

She shakes her head, sets down a bag she's carrying on a side table by the seating area, walks over and wraps her arms around his chest and squeezes. When she's had enough she doesn't let him move away, puts a hand on the back of his neck and pulls his head down so she can kiss his cheek and messes his hair like she does when she's trying to piss him off at work.

"We could hide a vest under that hoodie, too." She pokes at the excess material around his waist. "And your service weapon."

She's serious and it brings a smile to his face. That's Rachel, all business.

She backs up and sits on the sofa and he in the chair opposite and she pulls two cups out of the bag she carried in. "I brought you some decent coffee and your favorite donuts. Who loves you?"

"That'd be you, ma'am."

Now she smiles. "You're missed," she says. "Raylan's listless with no one to bounce off of when he's in the office and Art… Art's sad. He was talking to me about retirement plans yesterday. That's just wrong."

"Listless?"

"And what about you? Are you making out okay? Can I bring in anything else for you?"

Tim shakes his head in response, stuffs his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and flaps the front of it. "You chose well. Comfortable-crazy is the style around here."

She presses her lips together and looks him over again. "Seriously, Tim, we're missing an opportunity not letting you out like this when we're chasing fugitives. They would not see you coming."

Tim pulls the lid off his cup, brings it up close. He's glad she didn't come in sooner. Now that he's off most of the medication his hands have stopped shaking. There's no way he could have hid it from her, not drinking coffee. He takes a long sniff and grins in anticipation then sips and digs into the bag of donuts.

"Thanks."

"My pleasure."

He eats one in two bites.

"Slow down."

"Yes, ma'am."

Rachel laughs at his teasing.

He doesn't make small talk, starts with a question that's been bothering him. He's not sure Art was honest with him. "Rachel, are they gonna let me have my job back?"

"I don't see why not. Tim, you haven't done anything wrong."

He hadn't thought about it that way. He nods.

Rachel looks serious, she rarely doesn't. "But don't be all stoic and GI Joe in here. Take advantage of it. Figure it out."

He huffs. "Figure what out?"

"If I knew that, it would be because you told me, so you wouldn't have to ask, would you?"

Tim eats his way around the hole of another donut and thinks through the logic.

"You know who seems the most upset by all this?" she says, watching him.

He looks up and raises his eyebrows to ask the question that he can't with his mouth full.

"Raylan," she says.

His face expresses his disbelief.

"No, honestly. I think it's making him question everything with Arlo."

"What? Why?"

"Tim, go ahead, try and tell me that what's hurting you isn't all to do with Afghanistan."

"Uh, yeah." He concentrates on another donut. "Yeah, I suspect. But what's that got to do with Arlo?"

"He was in Vietnam. Did you know that more Vietnam veterans have committed suicide than actually died in combat there?"

He read that once, but it hits him hard hearing it from Rachel sitting here looking at him.

"That's a hard stat to prove, and I'm not suicidal."

"I never said you were. But take some time for yourself. You're owed it."

Tim looks away, wishes Jesse would come out and tell them time's up. He's worried he's going to break down in front of her.

She reaches over and sets her hand on his arm. "You want me to go?"

He looks back at her, guilty. "No."

"It's okay to be messed up about it."

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not. None of us are. Look at Raylan still dealing with his feelings for his dad. And me, I still can't stop being angry about Shawnee. Your shit, Tim, it's just a little more intense."

She doesn't often swear; she says it softly and it has more impact than all the cursing coming loudly out of the mouth of Art or Raylan or himself. He thinks she's too good even for Jesse; he thinks maybe he'll find Joe, her soon-to-be ex-husband who doesn't seem to like her as she is, perfect, lie in wait for him on a dark street and beat the shit out of him – as soon as he can get free of this place.

* * *

 


	17. Chapter 17

* * *

Alex is jogging up the stairs to his office, considers himself late for work again this morning but only because he prefers being early. He gets paged to the high security ward before he reaches his floor and can unload his bag and his jacket.

Andy's been sick all night and he's riled up. He's dragging his feet back and forth between the walls in his room, cagey and drowsed, muttering. Alex uses a low-pitched string of incoherent reassurances – _no, the dogs aren't going to find us in here, no one's looking through the windows, everything's alright_ – and finally manages to convince Andy to take some pills to settle his stomach. He takes them with juice and then he throws up on Alex, all over his clean shirt.

Dragging his coat and bag with him, Alex uses one of the bathrooms in the basement to clean up, for the privacy and the dull silence, gets his hair all wet and messy but at least the overpowering smell of unscented soap clears the reek of vomit.

He's down to a thin t-shirt and when he finally gets to his office he's cold. He rubs his chilled arms, considers fetching some coffee just to warm his hands but he feels too nauseous for the office gut-rot blend so his head aches now too, from the caffeine withdrawal. It's been a shitty morning and it's only just started. What he really wants is nicotine, not caffeine. _Fuck it_ , he thinks and takes his glasses off, presses icy fingers into his eyes. _Fuck it all and buck the fuck up, asshole._

Tim's iPod is on his desk. Alex picks it up and puts in the earbuds and flips through the playlists until he finds the cover for _Higher Ground_ that Tim was listening to. He cranks the volume until it almost hurts. "Fuck it," he says out loud this time and loudly, and he can't help a little smile.

It's a good cover. He lets it grab hold of him and starts to jump up and down, hands in the air, warming up from the inside out. Somewhere on the third repeat and mid-bounce he decides to spin around and finds himself face-to-face with Tim closing the door behind him, the usual unreadable expression aimed his way. Alex stops, slightly out of breath, and glances down at his watch. Well, shit, it's ten o'clock.

"Um… I was, uh…"

"Mosh pit? Rave? Maybe I should call Jesse – he's got a line on girls or so he tells me. You got anything to drink at this party?"

Alex scrubs a hand across the back of his neck and through his still-damp hair. He feels a bit stupid, awkward, out of his work clothes and caught dancing around his office. "I got puked on," he says and immediately regrets it. _Way to make it worse, Alex,_ he thinks, adds for Tim's hearing, "And no bar here, sorry. I've yet to stock up on office alcohol. You know, your, uh…Forest Rangers cover isn't half bad but I still prefer the Chilis' version."

Tim's face remains a blank. He stands there mutely eyeing Alex, studying him, then strolls around the room looking at the bright and distinctly personal odds and ends scattered in and amongst the hospital paraphernalia. "There's two types of military psychologists," he says finally, "– yeah, I know, you're a psychiatrist – same difference to me. There's the crew-cut, military-jargon spewing asshole who wants the guys to think he knows what it's about and that he's a tough-ass, and he treats you like the military taught him to, like a parcel of goods, and he calls you 'soldier' like everyone's name is actually 'soldier' and gives you all the tight-wrapped pre-recorded rationales for why all the shit that's happening around you is okay, and he tells you to stop thinking too hard about it because it's your job and that makes everything just fucking fine; and then there's the soft-soled keener who thinks he knows you before you step into the room, who fucking thinks everyone is suffering from an overdose of indecency and just wants to cry about it and talk about the guilt even if they're not Catholic, and he sits at your table in the DFAC with your team and makes everything fucking awkward and the guys stop talking because he's there and everyone wishes he'd go away so he can't see that you really just wanna laugh about the way the guy's head exploded that you fucking shot last night." He raises his arm and points at Alex. " _You_ just don't fit either of those types. You've got too much personality. I still think if I ask you fucking enough times you just might bring me in some bourbon." He pauses, a calculated grin. "Hey Alex, can you get me some bourbon?"

Alex looks down at his feet, hand still tangled up in his hair, giving himself time to digest everything Tim's just said. "Too much personality, huh? Uh…thanks, I guess. And, no. You can keep asking but the answer's still 'no.'"

Tim gives him a sly smile. "I'll keep asking."

Alex ignores the last comment, pulls the headphones off and puts the iPod back down on the desk. He moves across the room and plunks down in one of the chairs not facing the window. "Come on, sit. What do you wanna talk about today…besides bourbon?"

Tim walks over to the window then back. He pulls his chair out from the wall, pulls it kitty-corner to Alex, perches on it like he doesn't plan to stay long. "I wanna talk about how I'm getting out of here."

"And how do you see that happening?"

Tim stares at him blankly. "You're the doctor – I was hoping you'd tell me."

"Okay. Uh…how I see you getting out of here is…you face your memories, all the bad ones, you don't dodge them. And you trust me, trust that I'm here to help, that I have your back all the way through – whatever happens. And you don't lie to me. And you don't hide your shit away, not in here, even if it really fucking hurts you to talk about it… _especially_ if it really fucking hurts you to talk about it. It's, uh…it's gonna be hard but it works."

Tim puffs a breath out of the side of his mouth looking at Alex then the floor. He scratches his chin. "I need another shave."

"Hm."

Alex doesn't give an out; he waits.

The hem of Tim's hoodie is getting a lot of attention again. "What if there's something I can't talk about. I just…can't."

"Tell me something. What's, uh…what's the worst thing that could happen, if you commit to this?"

"I dunno. Maybe I end up hating myself."

"Tim, maybe you already do."

* * *

"Yeah, they'd generally run us thin on a deployment. Missions every night and in active areas. Sometimes – well, that one mission in particular, the one with the helo crash – it was crazy. We were a full fucking company of bullet sponges. There were a lot of incidents that trip. A number of guys didn't come back to combat duty after that one…injuries." Tim shrugs. "I was lucky. We lost two from our platoon that rotation. One was... That was an unusual number for us. I remember sleeping hard when we got back finally until some idiot decided to wake me up to go into town for some _I and I."_ Tim chuckles. "That was a mistake. I should've stayed in bed. Some woman broke a beer bottle over my buddy's head." He chuckles again. "He had it coming. She looked too mean to talk to that way. Then, of course, the locals got called in. One of the officers yelled at the lot of us. Then one of ours yelled more when we got back to base. It was all a show though. Block leave is nice, but it was nice too getting back to it. And then more training and more training and another deployment later that year."

Alex has spent hours going through the recordings, listening to Tim try to piece together his experiences in combat. There's a lot skimmed over, a lot related in broken, disjointed sentences, some holes. There's detail lacking when the shit hits, the places in the narrative where bad things happen. Alex expects this though and is trying to draw more out of Tim in the sessions, face-to-face, but it's like digging without a shovel.

"'I and I'?"

"Um…" Tim smiles, a mix of devilish and embarrassed. "Intoxication and intercourse…"

"Ah." Now Alex chuckles. "Yeah. So, uh…out of the bar and back to Afghanistan… There's not much in the recording about the locals, the civilians. Did you have much interaction with them?"

"Well, some. Why?"

Alex opens both hands, spreads his arms, encompassing everything. "It just doesn't add up. Kids have played prominently in your dreams, in some of your earlier recordings, in some of your, uh…hallucinations during your psychotic episodes early on. They pop up over and over – women and kids. They must be civilians. I take notes and highlight, um, recurring themes or words. But, there's nothing in this recent recording. Did you see many kids over there?"

Tim seems to draw in leaving a vacuum around him, a drop in temperature. "We saw some, yeah. But, it was a school I was at the last day at work with Art and Raylan – maybe it just brought up a lot of childhood shit…stuff. I dunno."

"Maybe."

Tim is instantly angry. "You don't believe me?"

Alex doesn't back down, flips through his notes. "Just, hear me out. In your recurring dream you're in Afghanistan, you're in a school and you're picking up the, uh…body parts of a dead child. You're picking them up to put in a white box. You said you'd been having this dream for a while, long before that day at work…right? Tim?"

Tim's eyes are fixed over Alex's left shoulder. He's twisting a loose thread, the same one, longer now with all the attention it's been getting the last week, twisting it around his finger, winding, unwinding. "My dad knocked me out once, knocked me out cold. Coming around on the other ward, it felt just like that, like coming around after he hit me."

"Your dad's in the dream too. Do you find it easier to talk about him than the kid?"

"What kid? It's just a fucking dream, Alex. My dad's in a lot of my dreams. So's Afghanistan. So what? It's all mixed up." Tim's up out of his chair and wandering the office restlessly. He picks up the Super Mario figurine on Alex's desk and says, "You like this game? I was more into Donkey Kong."

"Tim… Look, you're right. It's just a fucking dream. But it's anchored in reality. Your dad is _real_ and so is Afghanistan. I'm thinking maybe, uh…maybe, somehow, in some way, the kid is too?"

Tim sets the figure back, sighs dramatically. "Okay, Sigmund, maybe the kid's me. Does that work?" He walks the edges of the room fidgeting again with the frayed sleeve. "There shouldn't be kids where there's fighting – not in a house or in a war zone." He looks at Alex and smiles wryly. "Beer should be free too and we should all get every Friday off."

* * *

Alex is late leaving again, drives home and walks in the door of his apartment, changes his doctor wear for jeans and a t-shirt, grabs a jacket and heads straight back out.

The bar is noisy tonight, a hurricane of drunk voices trying to overpower the crappy band. The guy on the bass is messing up, forcing it all out of sync. Alex doesn't mind it though, it suits his head-space right now, a different sound than the mad orchestra of the ward or the dead silence of his apartment. He thinks about trying a new drug for Sophia, something milder to bring her out of the haze. And he's definitely onto something with Tim, he knows it, there's _something_ about the kids that's hitting a nerve.

He's on his third beer when a familiar face slides into the seat across from him. Alex stares, ransacks his brain for a name but comes up empty. _"Fuck."_ He never forgets a name, swears out loud still staring, a bit of panic and he tries to cover it up with a smile. It's returned with an eye roll and a chuckle.

"You can't remember my name, can you?"

He remembers a nipple-ring caught between his teeth, lime green sheets and a greasy hangover breakfast before dawn. "Uh…clearly, I'm a dick."

"It's Sam, and don't worry…I haven't the faintest idea what your name is either."

Sam's got a fantastic smile, wide and honest and catching; Alex grins back. "It's Alex, and I'm sorry. I _do_ remember you, Sam. I'm just, uh…"

"Lost in space by the looks of it. Buy me a beer?"

"Sure, yeah."

They talk about nothing for a bit, the weather, the appalling music, then Sam slips into a monologue about teaching math to hormonal teenagers and a mother just diagnosed with Alzheimer's. Alex sits back, stays quiet. He wonders sometimes if it's something that comes with the job or if it's just him, that he somehow always ends up listening to people. He likes it. It's humbling having someone share their story, trusting, just like that. Usually he's interested – people are fascinating – but tonight it's difficult to focus. He's watching Sam talk but his thoughts keep pulling him back to work, to Tim worrying at the sleeve of his hoodie and bouncing between the walls of the office looking for an escape, like he's being driven to a cliff, scrambling for a safehold when Alex has to push him to the edge and over. It's his job. It has to happen. He feels cruel.

"You look sad." Sam's leaning back against the worn leather of the couch, lips curved around the neck of the bottle.

"Sorry, what?"

"You know, life down here on earth ain't all bad. This bar is starting to feel overrated though."

Alex meets the pointed look, the temptation of a tongue lightly wetting a lip, and smiles. It comes out apologetic. Sam picks up on it and sighs, leans across the table until their lips are almost touching, breath like a cigarette. "That…is my cue to leave."

* * *

 


	18. Chapter 18

* * *

"Why are we talking about kids again?"

"Because it keeps coming up, Tim. You were asking about the man you helped, the one who slit his wrists, the one whose son died."

"Well, it's fucking horrible."

"You mentioned seeing, uh…" Alex flips through his notes, "You said, 'I think I saw enough of it already. It wears you flat.' You were talking about kids dying in your work, your current work. Can we talk about that?"

Tim stops his pacing at the door. He stands there suspended, like a photo, eyes fixed on nothing, stands there.

"Tim?"

Tim closes his eyes. "Not today. I'm not feeling well. I'm not sleeping well. I've had the dream every fucking night since…" He reaches for the door handle, runs his fingers over it and off and wades back to the chair. Sitting down heavily he drops his head on his arms on Alex's desk. "I'm tired. It's been a while since I've felt this tired. It's like I'm back in Ranger school only I'm not getting any fitter."

* * *

Rachel's come by again to drop off clean clothes and a care package from Art's wife, Leslie. The two of them, Tim and Rachel, have opened it, pulling stuff out and laughing like kids at Christmas. When they're done they go straight for the good stuff, start working their way through some homemade oatmeal cookies. There's some fruit too, a fleece blanket and a couple of new magazines, _Guns and Weapons for Law Enforcement, The RifleShooter_. Tim grins when he pulls them out. He wonders if Leslie knows Art slipped them in.

"I love my boss," Tim says. "But I'm a little disappointed in him. There's nothing liquid hidden in here. He's holding out."

"Or being responsible, maybe? So, do you think you'll be home soon?" Rachel asks, picking at grapes in Tupperware.

"I dunno. Alex," he looks up, shrugs, "my doctor, he wants to dig into everything and…" Tim wags his head, doesn't finish the statement, stops playing with his sleeve to gesture across the cafeteria. "You want some more coffee?"

"No, I've got to get back. We're short a deputy in case you hadn't heard."

"Yeah, I heard. Listen Rachel, thanks for the clothes. I appreciate it."

She smiles. "It's no trouble. It's hard to make up a full load now that Joe's moved out."

"How's that going?"

"It's going…going, gone. I want a divorce as soon as possible." She shrugs elegantly.

"I never did like him."

"Oh, you say that now."

They laugh because Tim really never did like him and made no bones about it.

He raises his eyebrows. "Um, I should warn you…"

"The nurse on your floor wants my number?"

"Yeah."

"Is he nice?"

"Well, he's Air Force, so, you know… I like him well enough despite it."

"Maybe I should try dating someone you _like_ this time."

"Just do me a favor and wait and break his heart after I'm out."

Rachel walks Tim back up to the ward. Jesse is waiting for them. Tim growls and Rachel pinches his elbow. "Be nice," she says. "Introduce me. It can't hurt."

"It can't hurt _you,"_ says Tim.

Jesse is all smiles and offers to see Rachel downstairs after opening the doors for Tim. Tim waves them off and ambles down the hall with his care package. Standing at the locked doors watching him go, Rachel misses Jesse rushing over to press the elevator button, her back to the gallantry. She frowns when Tim disappears into his room, turns away only when she hears the elevator chime.

Jesse is holding the door open. They start down and Rachel disarms him with a smile.

"I'm worried about Tim," she says sweetly. "How's he doing?"

Jesse tries to reassure her. "Oh, don't you worry about Tim. We're all looking out for him and I'd want Dr. Sullivan as my doctor if I was in Tim's shoes. He'll figure out what's causing the trouble. Things always seem to get worse first before they get better."

"He's not sleeping well," she says, looks up at him, eyes wide. "He looks so tired."

"Yeah, I think the nightmares are getting to him."

"Nightmares? Is that normal?"

"It's not uncommon when you start digging up bad memories. Being in Afghanistan, I promise you, the man has got to have some bad memories. I do and I was never outside the wire."

"Oh." She doubles up on the smile. "It's his birthday next week. I was hoping to take him for dinner."

"I doubt he'll be out by then." Jesse looks like it's hurting him to have to tell her that.

Rachel nods, files away the information and manages to avoid giving him her phone number.

* * *

Tim is out the door this time, walking fast through the waiting area.

"Tim!"

"No. I'm not talking about kids again! I've had enough of this shit."

"Tim…" Alex runs around in front of him, holds up both hands, stop.

"I'm done." Tim is yelling and shaking. "I'm done, okay? I don't want to talk about it. I'm upset, okay? I said it. It _upsets_ me."

"I know it upsets you. It's obvious. That's why we have to talk about it. Everyone gets upset when kids are hurt or killed but you can't…seem to deal with it in any way that's healthy. You either go flat – your words – or…" Alex waves his arms, "or this."

Tim's desperation is thickening the air and Alex takes off his glasses and slips them into his pocket. The action seems to release something in Tim. He takes a step backward, away from escape.

"You think I'm going to hit you?"

"I think you're pretty close to that fight or flight point and you'd do anything to get past me and avoid this discussion and, uh…I'm not moving. And I like these glasses."

"You're fucking crazy."

"You want to get out of here, Tim, don't you? You want to get back to your apartment, your job, your life?"

Tim takes a step forward now. "Are you threatening me?"

Alex brings his arms up again, unconsciously done, drops them quickly when he becomes aware of his reaction. "No. I'm just…I'm just telling you how it is. You want out of here? Then we hit all the points that get you like this. This is not normal behavior. It's not a big step, Tim, to go from this, this agitation, to anxiety, to a full shut down like you did on the job. You've got to deal with this."

Tim is shaking, glaring. He yells, "Fuck," directly into Alex's face. Alex flinches.

* * *

"Why are we doing this? I've told you every day this week, I don't want to talk about it. Jesus. We had a case just a few months ago… We cornered this guy… His family, his kids… He threatens to shoot his…" Tim is doing a circuit of the room again, all the edges, ends at the door.

"Tim, don't walk out that door again. That does nothing."

"This does nothing!"

"How did you feel when he threatened to shoot his kids?"

"I don't want to talk about it!"

Alex is standing now, walks close to Tim and studies his face.

"How are you sleeping?"

"What?"

"How well are you sleeping, Tim? You look exhausted. Jesse tells me you've been up every night. What's keeping you up? Are you getting any sleep at all?"

"Jesse's telling you?"

"Yes, it's his job. He volunteered to switch to nights this week to keep an eye on you. He's _trying to help."_

"And you think _I'm_ not."

Alex sighs, turns away to his desk and picks up his file and a pen. "I have some simple questions I'd like to ask you. Answer them truthfully, please. Do you smoke?"

"No, why? You want a cigarette?" There's a sneer with the question.

Alex refuses to be taunted. "Do you have any family history of mental or emotional disorders – depression, bi-polar, schizophrenia, anything you haven't mentioned to me?"

"No."

"You're certain?"

"Not that I know of."

Alex jots something down. "You drink alcohol." It's a statement; Alex amends it, turning it into a question after a disdainful look from Tim. "How much and how often did you drink _prior_ to being admitted?"

Tim turns his head away. "I drink off-duty, after work. Sometimes too much."

"Every day after work?"

"Not every day. Sometimes I get home at weird hours, like fucking dawn. Sometimes I don't get home."

"Ever drink _before_ work, during work?"

"No!"

Alex looks at Tim hard, questioning the truth and Tim snaps.

"Fuck you. I said 'no.' I have to be able to use a rifle. I have to be able to make that shot. Sometimes at the end of the day we'll sit in Art's office and have a drink. That's it. That's the only time at work."

"Was your father an alcoholic?"

"I dunno. He would get abusive when he drank but I don't remember him drinking that often, no. It's just when he did I'd clear out. My mom said he was a mean drunk. Talk about your understatements."

"Have you ever used prescribed or illicit drugs, and I don't mean antibiotics?"

Tim goes very still, says in a threateningly dull voice, "I would never use drugs."

"Then hear me out. If you've been truthful with your answers, there's no harm in putting you back on a low dose of antipsychotics…"

"No."

"Tim, it would be a low dose that would help…"

"No!"

"Are you sleeping?"

Silence.

"Is it nightmares? Is it the same nightmare? Jesse tells me you're not even getting into bed these past few nights. Are you afraid to go to sleep?"

Tim starts pacing again. Alex throws out an arm to stop him walking away but Tim brushes past.

"Fine. I'm prescribing aripiprazole and quetiapine. It'll help you sleep."

"I won't take it."

"You won't have any choice. We're getting nowhere."

"Fuck you!"

"Then start talking. Tell me about the kids you saw killed in Afghanistan."

"What do you want to know? Their ages? Girls or boys? How they died? What?"

"I want to know how you feel about it."

"I don't know! I told you, I just go flat!"

"Then describe the circumstances."

Alex watches as the circumstances that he needs to hear Tim speak about pass in a parade of unchecked emotions across his face, emotions that won't be ordered, that cross lines and double back and march behind his eyes and into clenched fists, leaving a trail of desperation. Tim takes a step toward a wall and starts hitting it, his right fist slamming again and again until Alex can see the blood smear and he's between Tim and the wall and trying to stop him.

* * *

Alex feels responsible. He's pushing again, but how else to get to it? He's sitting with Tim in another section of the hospital. Tim's had his hand x-rayed and there's a fracture and it's now in a splint. He refuses pain killers except something over-the-counter, says it serves him right, says he's pretty fucking stupid.

It's a helpless sound, the chuckle that comes from Alex when Tim waves away a serving of a mild opioid. "Most of the people we get in here, drugs _is_ their problem or they're begging me for a prescription for something. But you, you're like..." Alex leans in and whispers for Tim, "You're just fucking contrary."

Tim's expression narrows down to a point, determined, "I'd take ibuprofen if you had any, but that's it." And he tells Alex about his friend, Mark, and his drug-dependent executioner, Colton Rhodes, and the drug-dealing ex-Marine who found a ready market with war veterans and brought the two together, then he talks about two more Ranger buddies trying to shake addictions to pain killers.

When he's finished, he says like he's jack-hammering into concrete, "You promised me, no more drugs."

"Tim, what I'm suggesting isn't addictive."

"But feeling better is – do you understand?"

Alex thinks about the paperwork that would have to be presented to the Marshals Service if Tim were to continue the use of an antipsychotic after his release, on into the future and his job with a gun. Even a mild dose of a mild drug would need permission, would raise flags. He thinks about the stigma Tim's likely already fighting.

"Okay, okay. But, Tim, you've got to start talking. If we're not going the pharmacological route, then therapy is going to be more work for you up front, and it doesn't end when you leave the hospital. You know that, don't you?"

If it's possible Tim looks more tired. "If it's what I gotta do…"

* * *

 


	19. Chapter 19

* * *

Alex works the Saturday, finishes up his rounds a bit early because he has to go home and shower and change and be at Bridget's for dinner. He stops at Sophia's room last, as always – first and last. The family has been pushing to get her moved to a permanent facility and he's loath to let her go but recognizes the advantages. And there's a part of him that would be happy to sign her out of his life. He realizes it's a normal feeling but it eats at him. Bridget's offered him a quiet dinner tonight. She probably senses a need. He's happy to go knowing she won't give him confirmation or make the decision for him – she'll draw out what's already there waiting for an opportunity to be recognized. That's what she does. That's what he needs.

Sophia looks human this week, even in the harsh hospital light.

She's not resisting the feedings anymore and it's starting to show in her blood test results. She sits still now and quiet and lets it all happen. There's something hesitant, flickering and airy light, settling in the pit of Alex's stomach – a respite. And she's not as pale anymore, there's a hint of a flush on her cheeks and her eyes are clearer, strikingly green, pretty – he hadn't noticed before, too busy watching, not taking the time to look.

He sits next to her in his chair and takes the time to look, feels he has the luxury today, optimistic, but he's sorry he does. He can see the evidence on her of his choices. The skin around her nose is chafed from the tube and reminds him that all that's happened has hurt her more than him. He feels guilty then, guilty that he's wallowing, so he pulls his eyes away from her face and watches instead her thin fingers clasping a plastic cup of water and he listens to her shallow soft breathing. He talks to her, tells her it'll be alright, that things are looking better, that she's doing well. He asks her, like he does every day, to talk to him, to say something, anything.

He tells her about a mental health center in her future. They might have a spot open for her soon.

"They've got a really good art therapy program," he says, dragging a hand through his hair. "I know you like to paint, and, uh…the rooms are nice, nicer. And it's beautiful out there. The view is fantastic."

Alex feels stupid saying it – as if the view will make a difference, as if it will change anything, a magical place with magical views and magical art supplies. But her bright green eyes linger on his face and it gives him confidence; he thinks that maybe she's not looking right through him today.

* * *

Bridget's house is always warm – warm colors, thick carpets, a fireplace. It's lived in and comfortable and there's at least one bookshelf in every room, the books sorted alphabetically. Alex is in the living room browsing through a random section of her library. There's Kant's three _Critiques_ next to Kearney's _History of Erotic Literature_ next to some Kerouac next to…

"Hey, you've got Maslow in the wrong place."

He picks out the _History of Erotic Literature_ and flips through it. Bridget shows up behind him.

"So, maybe I like it that way."

"Isn't it easier to sort by genre?"

"Alex, you keep most of your books in stacks on the floor. It's very difficult for me to take anything you say concerning systems of sorting seriously."

"I wasn't…"

She smacks his arm but her smile is warm, just like her house. She hands him a cup of hot chocolate. He stares down at it and frowns.

"Oh, don't read too much into it," she says. "It's just hot chocolate and I like chocolate. Come on, sit down."

He's been planning to buy some more shelves for his place, a better table for the kitchen too, and maybe some paint to cover up the eggshell white walls. He really doesn't like the eggshell white – too sharp. He's had the apartment for almost a year now and it still feels like storage for his stuff, a white blank space that he exploded in, leaving bits of himself scattered all over. Planning out some kind of interior design seems trite though and he's been busy. Sometimes he thinks he's more at home in his office.

Bridget plunks contentedly into the over-sized cushy armchair and draws her feet up. _And that leaves me the couch,_ thinks Alex with a comic sense of dread and he hesitates, still standing.

"This can't possibly end well," he mutters but sits stiffly at one end when she gives him a funny look.

"Chocolate," she says. "It's on the first step of Maslow's hierarchy of needs, I'm pretty sure." She snorts and laughs. "It's so basic I'm almost embarrassed to talk about it."

Alex grins back, going for artless but the secret he's fostering brings some sly out. "So I, uh…I met Michelle from administration today. She blushed when I mentioned you."

The comment lights up everything beautiful in Bridget's face. "Really? Alright, we can talk about that. But first I want to know about your trip to the emergency room."

"You heard about that, huh?"

"I hear everything. He hurt his hand. How? Is he alright?"

"Yeah, it was my fault. I was pushing. Shit, I guess I'm lucky he took it out on the wall and not my face. He's got a nice splint. It's an advertisement for my stupidity."

"He's frustrated and scared, I imagine. It's probably got very little to do with you. Do you really think he would've hurt you? Is that what you wanted to talk about?"

He shakes his head. "No, Tim...I think it's going well. Well, not _well_ but where it needs to go. It's… I think I'm gonna go ahead and make the arrangements to get Sophia moved. You know that mental health center I told you about? It's what her family wants. It's just… God, Bridget, I just feel like such an asshole. No matter what I do I end up hurting her as much as helping her."

"Self-actualization, realizing your potential and living up to it, it's somewhere around the top of the hierarchy. Think about what steps you're missing in between if you're having trouble with it."

"I think Maslow's been outdated in the field of psychiatry for a long time and that…is an oversimplification of his theory."

"This isn't a seminar, asshole. It's your life. Why is it so hard for you to make decisions for Sophia?"

"Because it's _her_ life."

"Tell me about your sister, Alex. How did she die?"

The question is a right hook. He should have seen it coming, should have been expecting it, this is Bridget after all and he is _on her couch_ , but he was watching the little left jabs and it's like a punch in the gut when it comes. He loses his breath for a moment.

"Uh, heroin overdose."

It's mumbled, directed at the floor. He puts the empty cup down on the table, eyes running around the room. "You've got some pretty fucking weird artwork in here. What's that supposed to be?" He points to a large painting over the fireplace. "Surrealist? Is it some kind of statement? Because it's weird, Bridget."

It's such an obvious deflection – he's clearly been spending too much time with Tim – but he hopes she'll let him off the hook just out of pity for his lack of any clever or creative avoidance strategy.

She sighs, allows it. "The motif isn't the point of this particular piece." She pauses, tilts her chin and grimaces. "I agree – it's dreadful, but it was a gift. I keep it there to remind me of the person who gave it to me, and it makes me feel closer to home."

Alex has some of his dad's artwork hanging on his walls, some more stashed in a closet waiting for hooks. They remind him, but they don't make him feel closer to home, they make him feel farther from it. He should never have left. He worries that everything he does here, everything he's feeling, every action, is infected by his past. He might as well go back if that's the case, deal with it all. The thought makes him miserable. It's not what he wants.

Bridget's voice lures him back. "Okay, I'll tell you about Michelle if you think you're ready for it."

"If you think I'm ready for it? Why wouldn't I be ready for it?"

"Because I'm never sure if you're in California or Kentucky. It's difficult to give the things here, like my crush on Michelle, their proper attention if you're in California. Would you like some more hot chocolate?"

He wishes he'd beat her to the chair. "Yeah, thanks."

* * *

Alex jumps out of his car, doesn't take the time to lock it. He rushes through the hospital corridors, quiet at night, upstairs and into the hallway on the men's ward, slows down when he sees the crowd outside Tim's room. He's surprised to see the head nurse from the high-risk ward, Martha, standing in front of the door shouting in a whisper, Jesse behind her wringing his hands. This isn't her floor, this isn't like her to be arguing with a doctor though he's heard rumors of times before he started here. He steps into the melee.

"What's going on?" he says just loudly enough to be heard over the hushed and harsh words.

"Dr. Sullivan." It's Martha that addresses him. "Thank God you're here. I won't let them sedate him and I need you to back me up on this."

"Won't let them sedate him? Tim? Why would…? What are you doing down here?"

"Jesse called me down. Tim's upset about something and he's quite a handful of trained soldier when he's aware of his surroundings."

The night doctor interrupts. "He's not aware. The patient is out of control."

"You think he's having another psychotic episode?" Alex can't believe it, doesn't want to believe it. He's been stable for too long now.

"He's _not._ He's completely lucid," Martha snaps. "He doesn't need sedation; he needs to work this out."

" _You_ haven't been in there." The doctor pushes his point with a finger.

Martha stands her ground. "I'll take Jesse's word on it. He's spent a lot of time with him."

Alex starts to put the picture together. "So will I," he says. He needs to take charge. "Um…I'm going to go talk to Tim now. I've got this. Uh, Martha, thank you." He steps around the orderlies and the second doctor, stops at the door and eyes Jesse's large frame. "Jesse, do you mind hanging around? Uh, just that I might need some military phrasing translation?"

"Sure thing, Dr. Sullivan."

"And the rest of you can go. It's fine."

The posse splits up and straggles off, clearly disappointed at not being allowed to stick around for the finale. Alex pauses to smile at Martha and she rewards him by smiling back. It gives him some added confidence. She pats his arm and strides quickly back down the hallway, back to her post.

"He's upset about something," Jesse explains when they're alone. "He's upset is all, and you'd expect that, right? I mean I can tell you from personal experience, man, you…"

Alex nods, reassures, "It's okay. I'm not taking the easy route with him, okay?"

He faces Tim's door, knocks and calls out to him quietly. There's nothing but silence from inside. Alex pushes the door open and peers in. Tim is standing at the window, fingers hooked into the grate. His face is wet. Alex can see it shining, refracting the light from the parking lot outside.

Tim turns his head just enough to catch Alex in the corner of his vision. He drags a sleeve across his face.

"Okay, so I remember. It's what you guys wanted, right? Can I go home now?" His voice is low and gravelly and torn.

Alex feels the weight of the truth, though he has no idea what it is yet. But he suspects. The clues are there. "You must've known…I mean seriously, Tim…to have something affect you this much, to put you in here? Tim, you must've known it was going to be something…that it wasn't going to be easy to…to face."

Tim huffs – it's desperate and the tears start streaming again and his sleeve comes up again and brushes roughly along his eyes and his cheek. "You were right about the kids. You were right." He twists his mouth up, sobs, "I didn't know they were there… The fucker shouldn't have gone into a school. It wasn't my fault. I didn't know. Jesus. I couldn't tell in the dark. And I didn't…I didn't _feel_ anything. Nothing. Looking at them. _Nothing._ What does that make me? We debriefed, we shipped out next afternoon, slept in Germany, didn't give it another thought. We were going home." The sleeve does another pass. "I wanna think it was all his fault, the fucker with the RPG, but I…shit, I pulled the trigger. If we just hadn't even been there then… But fuck, what…what could I do? I can't think of any way different to…"

Tim turns around to face Alex.

"Why is it that I know all this but I didn't bother remembering it? I know it was there." Tim jabs his head hard with a finger. "It's always been there. Why was it…? I don't get it." He turns away again.

Alex looks for a place to sit but Tim has completely wrecked the room. Even the metal bed frame is bent beyond useful, upended. He is suddenly aware of the strength hidden in the man in the baggy clothes at the window. He makes note of it, but it doesn't worry him. He opens the door and calls out quietly, "Jesse, could you get us a couple of chairs? And we're going to need a new bed frame for the room."

Jesse grins nervously, nods. Obviously he thinks the evening might turn out alright after all. "Some coffee too, maybe?" he offers.

"Yeah, that'd be nice, thanks. Make it three."

"No problem."

When Alex turns back, Tim is slipping down to the floor, dissolving in memories. The sleeve is pressed up onto his face and it stays there. Alex decides not to wait for a chair, steps around the destruction and crouches down beside his patient, settles next to him.

* * *

 


	20. Chapter 20

* * *

Jesse talks as he cleans up the untouched tray from lunch. He touches Tim's shoulder once or twice, hoping to draw him back. "I think I saw one ramp ceremony too many," he says, opening the curtains and letting in some light. "I ended up in a bonafide depression when I got back. It was my sister who suggested nursing. She said I'd be good at it and – surprise, surprise – it was just what I needed. What you did, it saved me one ramp ceremony, or if not me then some other Air Force mechanic on that airstrip. You think about that. You saved some lives that day and probably more than just your buddies' in that village. So you think about it."

Tim doesn't want to hear it – this life for that life. These are choices for God, whichever God was working Logar province that day, not for him. He never wanted that kind of power. He didn't sign up for it – it's way beyond his pay grade. The world can just fuck off for putting him in that position. It can fuck right off, everyone and everything in it. Why didn't someone step in to stop that? Why did he have to be there? His platoon? His day out? He wants answers but doesn't care enough to think about it. He realizes that he doesn't give a good goddamn who's accountable. He's sunk way below angry. He doesn't give a shit who's happy – there is no happy. He doesn't give a shit who's living, who's not, whose life counts more. He doesn't care what happens today or tomorrow or next week or next year. Let it rain – he doesn't care. He doesn't give a fuck what month it is or how much time has passed since he last cared about it. He doesn't want to think about whether drinking too much is a problem or a symptom or the only true path to happiness. He doesn't care if he's hungry or tired or bored or angry or even if he cares. He doesn't care. It's a wash. Everything. The only thing he's interested in is oblivion. He and oblivion could have a good conversation right now. He and oblivion could see out the rest of his time here. He and oblivion could coexist. Everyone and everything else can just fuck off.

He wishes Jesse would fuck off and leave him alone.

But Jesse calls to him one last time. "You need anything, Tim?"

Tim doesn't open his eyes. He doesn't care.

* * *

Alex props Tim's door open with the garbage can – he knows he likes it that way. Tim hasn't spoken to anyone today, he hasn't been out of bed, he hasn't eaten a thing, his coffee's cold. Alex has left instructions with the staff – keep a close eye on him, check him often, every hour isn't enough, every ten minutes, every five minutes if you can. It's a breaking point and no one can guess which way he'll break. Alex wants to believe that Tim will sit up and drink his coffee tomorrow morning and wash his face and start talking, a word or two would be fine, something. He wishes a future where the two of them discuss that day until Tim has a firm grip on it and a firm grip on his feelings about it and then... And then what? It all depends.

It would ease his mind to move a comfortable chair into the room and claim it and stay there, keep Tim in sight, just in case. Just in case. But he has work to do, other patients. Why should he care so much about this one? Because he feels responsible. He's talked about it with Jesse, with Martha, with Bridget, with Art Mullen – they all feel responsible in some way. It's their government too; it's their lifestyle too, their stability, their ease, their complacency, their world, their war.

Alex's legs move him automatically down the hall and through the locked doors and down the other hall to his office and he's there before he realizes he was even heading in that direction.

There's a feeling with this job of treading water, barely keeping his head up, neutral buoyancy – Sophia's looking better and Tim's looking worse. Maybe all this schooling and training and desire to help adds up to nothing and it's really a crapshoot of timing and babysitting. But that's not a productive way to think, so Alex shuffles papers on his desk looking for something to do.

There's a pack of cigarettes stashed in his bottom left drawer and his eyes are drawn there. He recalls a conversation with Tim earlier in the week, another attempt to get Alex to buy him some bourbon. Tim told him about a similar gravity well in his boss's office, all eyes ending up fixed longingly to the bottom right drawer where the Chief Deputy keeps his bottle of whiskey hidden for foot-weary deputies on soul-weary days. There's not much difference between that bottle and this pack; there's no difference. The yearning for a cigarette tingles in his fingertips and makes his knees ache. He can't smoke in here but he opens the drawer and then the pack and picks out a cigarette and holds it, brings it up to his mouth, pretends a little. No harm. He turns his back on everything and slouches against his desk, eyes closed, tries hard to savor the too meager taste of a stale unlit cigarette.

Lost in his nicotine fantasy, Alex barely flinches when the door slams open. He's expecting Bridget, resigned to being caught red-handed, resigned to her disappointment at his impending slip and fall, so he's surprised, left staring dumbly when instead it's a man that saunters in, hips swaying like he's on a catwalk, hand hooked on the pocket of his jeans, holstered gun obvious, cavalier. Alex knows instantly who it is – there's no mistaking him – but he really thought Tim was joking about the cowboy hat.

"Most people knock," Alex says, cigarette bouncing between his lips.

"I ain't most people." Raylan holds out a hand to shake, an afterthought of social habit.

Alex stares at it for a few seconds then takes a firm hold when the Marshal clears his throat and looks him in the eye like he's lining up a shot.

"I'm Deputy Marshal Raylan Givens. I'm here about Tim Gutterson. I'd like to see him. The wonderful and reluctantly helpful people downstairs sent me to you. Should you really be smoking in here?"

"Do you see smoke?" Alex is surly; nothing else is possible against this.

The expression Raylan gives him is mocking. "You plan on eating it?"

"How did you get past security?"

There's a beat of awkward silence, Raylan's eyebrows hitch up underneath the brim of his hat and he gestures vaguely toward the star on his belt. Alex resists the urge to roll his eyes. He slips the cigarette between his fingers, flicks it even though it's not lit – it's a twitch really, sheer ridiculous habit.

"Tim doesn't want any visitors right now, Deputy Givens. I'm sorry. You'll have to come back another time."

"I just want a word, _Doctor…"_ He pauses, leans forward and turns his head slightly, inviting an introduction.

"Sullivan. Doctor Sullivan."

"Just a quick word to let him know that I…that _we_ all want him back where he belongs and all this shit..." He waves an arm around to demonstrate, "It don't mean…shit."

Alex smiles politely, stiffly. "I'll pass the message along. Under the circumstances though, I can't go against his wishes. I'm sure you understand."

Raylan takes a long step forward and snatches the cigarette from Alex's loose grip, tosses it in the garbage can. Alex follows its path, baffled, looks back up at the cowboy. It's a hard expression being directed his way.

Raylan's jaw is clenched and there's a hint of a tick below his left eye. He brings a hand up to poke at it, says, "He's going to hear this now, and from me, whether he or you goddamn likes it or not." He backs up, smiles, certain of his success. "It'll only take a minute. Scout's honor."

Alex pushes off his desk and stands up straight, eye to eye with the Marshal, almost the same height. "I get that not taking no for an answer might come in handy in your line of work, Deputy, but it won't do squat for you here. You can leave a number. I'll, uh…call if things change."

"You're not hearing me, _Doctor…"_

"Sullivan. Doctor Sullivan."

"Right. I'm not leaving until I talk to Tim. If he doesn't wanna see me, he can tell me that himself."

It's well-worn authority in a smoothly aggressive tone heightened by the accent, and he's standing too close, crowding in on Alex's personal space. Alex feels a bit intimidated and it makes him angry to feel that way in his own office, here in his world, so he snaps, unexpected, words sharp and aimed to injure.

"Were you spoiled as a child? Or is it that you had to take everything you wanted by force because no one would give it to you without a fight?"

Alex steels himself for retaliation, a punch in the face, thinks he might deserve it too, and runs a hand through his hair nervously before picking out another cigarette from the old pack. Raylan surprises him though, backs off and chuckles exposing a line of neat white teeth that remind Alex of Hollywood.

"Do I pay you for the psychoanalysis or do I pay downstairs at the desk?"

"That was a freebie. You can leave me a tip if you'd like."

Raylan is clearly reassessing. "So, you're saying that I drove all the way over here and found a good parking spot for nothing?"

"Not for nothing. I'll tell him you came by – that'll mean something."

"Yeah…you better." Raylan moves to leave, stops at the door and turns back to say, "I almost forgot your tip. Here it is – _don't screw with Tim."_

"That sounded more like a threat than a tip."

"Take it whichever way you please."

* * *

Staring down the Marshal ends up being just what Alex needs – it bolsters his confidence, reaffirms that he's capable of standing his ground when it's important. He's glad for it when he's talking to Bridget outside of Tim's room the next morning.

There's no improvement, no sign of a willingness to fight his way out of this…this depression. That's the word for it and not unexpected. Just waking up on a psych ward, losing control of yourself and not being aware of it, just that is reason enough for depression. Add revisiting a trauma and you've got all the weight required to sink you to the bottom.

Alex has to find a way to help Tim back up. Medication is an option. Antidepressants work. Bridget brings it up, halting Alex in the hallway. They talk in a whisper.

"How long are you going to wait, Alex? You know what standard procedure is in a case like this."

"Yeah, it's… _standard."_

"Proven standard."

"Again…standard."

Bridget steps closer and tips her head up to peer at him now through her reading glasses. "What are you thinking?"

"I made a promise, Bridget. I promised him no more medication."

"You shouldn't make promises as a doctor, especially when it's unclear what's coming. Welcome to psychiatry."

"Do you think I don't know that? But it's how I got him to trust me. We wouldn't have even gotten to this point if I hadn't made that promise." Alex is agitated. He's aware of the transgression, aware that he's both right and wrong and it would only depend on who was judging to decide which way the sentencing might go. He has hopes with Bridget. "You've been, uh…pushing me from the day you hired me to start trusting my own decisions. This is my decision. No medication. He'll come out of it. He's a trained fighter."

"This is your decision until it's not anymore. Do you understand?"

Alex blinks, surprised by the tone.

"I will intervene," she says, "if I feel I have to."

* * *

 


	21. Chapter 21

* * *

It's well past the whistle, well past happy hour. Alex sits in the chair in Tim's room and it's like his career is now in syndication, he's watching reruns of it. Tim has his back to the world and isn't responding to anything. It's the end of day two and Alex is starting to think about a promise he made to this Marshal – no more drugs. But this can't go on. He won't let this go that way, not like Sophia. Alex flips open his file and starts making a list of antidepressants: Sertraline, Nefazodone, Fluoxetine, Duloxetine…

But he made a promise, and it made sense at the time.

He scribbles them all out and starts writing a list of things that he remembers Tim saying he enjoys: Donkey Kong, bourbon, southern rock, target shooting, baseball. He closes the file and heads out.

An hour later he's driving through Lexington looking for an address, a shop that carries old gaming systems and used games. The owner pulls out a refurbished Nintendo '64, lets Alex dig through the old games and he finds a copy of Donkey Kong and Super Mario, and he pays for it all and takes it home.

The apartment is empty, more empty than usual, dark and full of shadows and ghosts and he can't stop his mind from wandering places it really shouldn't tonight.

There's half a bottle of tequila in his liquor cabinet. Alex figures what the hell, why not, and doesn't even bother with a glass. It hits fast, flattening him harder than he thought it would or meant it to, like the Pacific surf rising quickly out of the steep coastal drop and slapping you down onto high tide sand, unexpected. It's not long before he's drifting in and out on the floor by the bookshelf, head pillowed on a pile of old psychology journals. He pictures Bridget, wonders what she would say if she saw him now.

Then it's his dad, sitting on the edge of the bed, an odor of stale sweat and his hair greasy and stringy and his hands bleeding. He's holding the razor blade out like a gift. _I couldn't do it, kid. I'm sorry. I couldn't do it._ Alex turns and leaves, sick, he turns and leaves the room and leaves his dad sitting alone, sunk down in his despair and not even trying anymore.

He's so angry with him.

Then it's Sophia, on her hospital bed wrapped in her hospital sheets, the tube still sticking out from her nose. _Make it stop, Alex. I don't want this. Make it stop._ She's biting her raw fingers and then she's lying naked and transparent, pale on a slab in the morgue, belly stuffed with sedatives and painkillers and anti-depressants. Her lips are blue and she's so thin, collarbones sticking out like wings.

Then Tim, lifting a gun, aiming it at him.

He wakes up gasping for air, choking under the wave of nausea that rushes in, threatening to force the tequila back up. He stays there on his back on the floor and lets the room spin around him, drifts with the occasional splotches of passing headlights from outside as they sweep across the walls. Sometime just before midnight he sits back up, gets his phone from his pocket and calls the first number on speed dial.

"Kinda late for a call from you, Alex. Haven't you got work tomorrow?"

His voice is slurred, slow. Alex can never tell if it's because he's taking too much medication or too little.

"Hey, Dad. Are you doing okay?"

"You sound like shit, kid. Are you drinking?"

Dodging questions means things aren't great. Alex rests his head back on the wall and chews a nail. He called to say something.

"Alex?"

"Yeah, uh…I quit smoking."

"How old were you when I first caught you with a cigarette? Fourteen?"

"Twelve."

"You looked like a puppy with a stolen steak. What did I do about it? I don't remember…"

"You made me watch _Night of the Living Dead."_

There's a pause, confusion. "Why the hell would I do that?"

"I, uh…I don't know. Never figured that one out."

"Well…shit, I'm sorry. That was a pretty crappy movie."

"I liked it. Did I wake you up?"

"No, it's still early here. Besides, don't really sleep much anymore. They've got me on these new drugs and they sure keep the head spinning."

Alex's psychiatrist's brain kicks in, a series of questions already lined up and on the tip of this tongue: _What are the names of the drugs? How much are you taking? How often? Any side effects_? He should be in California. The doubts start surfacing. Why did he call his dad tonight?

"Okay, Dad. I'm, uh…I'm sorry I called so late. I've got work tomorrow so…"

"It's not late here Alex, remember? Hey, just…wait. Are you…? You got a girlfriend yet? I haven't heard you talk about anyone in a while."

This isn't the conversation they need to have but Alex knows he can't be therapist to everyone, especially not his father. He can't do it, not that. He needs distance here, so he answers the questions, mundane details about his life, and it's almost meditative, soothing in its simplicity. He puts his phone on speaker to free his hands, works setting up the Nintendo system while he talks about everything and anything, just like the old days, and his dad reads him like a book and pulls it all out of him, his insecurities about his career, his choices. They laugh about nicotine cravings, share cigarette stories and a hate for the itchy and aching hunger. Eventually, Alex hangs up feeling better than he has in a while and plays Super Mario until after three.

* * *

The next morning, ten o'clock, Alex wheels a TV into Tim's room, sits and plays Donkey Kong for the hour that would have been their session together. He talks to the TV while he's playing, cursing the obstacles and his own lack of skill at the game. Between levels he looks over at Tim, hoping for something.

* * *

Tim starts paying attention after he hears the name Fort Hood, Texas. It's important to her, serious, what she's saying. He puts a picture together from pieces that get through, opens his eyes and squints at the wall and lets the voice in. She's telling him about someone she knows, someone back from Iraq. He doesn't want to listen but her voice is compelling.

"It's too late to tell him these things but I get to tell you. You're not alone with your troubles, Tim. When you suffer with something I promise you there are people around you suffering right along with you. It may not be the same thing that's making them suffer but it's all linked together, their suffering with yours. If, and I say if because I believe that you're a different kind of person than he is…was, but… If you decide to end your suffering, let me tell you, _it doesn't end,_ it just transfers along and someone else has to take up the burden. You can never get rid of it. I know you know that because you've seen that there's a world's worth of it out there. You can only share it and that helps some. It does. It helps some. I'm sharing mine right now with you, and I'm hoping it'll help some, with both of us."

He knows the voice, puts the face to it finally without turning over to look – it's Martha. Damn her, Martha, soft-hard Martha, respected Martha. He can't ignore her. He turns over because he has to for her and sits up and looks at her. She's not in her nurse's clothes; she's wearing jeans and a sweater and it makes her look softer. She smiles.

"Hey," she says. "It's okay."

He shakes his head. "No, it's not." He hasn't used his voice in a few days and it's deep and rusty. He reaches out a hand. "Do you have a picture?"

"What?"

"A photo?"

"Oh." She lifts her purse off the floor and searches inside for her wallet and opens it and pulls out three small photos. She chooses one, rubs a thumb over it and hands it over.

Tim stares at the face – it could be any one of them, any one of his battalion. He turns it away to run the back of his arm over his eyes then hands it back.

"I'm sorry. But he's not thinking about any of it anymore."

"No," she says. "But I am, and his mother is."

Tim feels something like anger. It's a chisel.

"Tim, is it something you saw?"

He won't look at her now. He's angry and it's chipping away at the black that is everywhere.

"Is it something you did?"

He drops his head.

She reaches out and smooths his hair. She doesn't have the blue latex gloves on. Her bare hands reach and touch something, take a gentle but firm hold of something and drag it closer and it rubs raw over the numbness and he feels it. He hates it. He hates her for it and the hate is hammering at the blackness too. He wishes she'd put her gloves on.

* * *

The food, as always, is wonderful, but Alex isn't enjoying the evening. He thinks maybe he's had too much to drink. He feels ill. The man across from him is loud and clearly drunk himself and Alex wants to stand up and scream at him that he's an idiot and doesn't know shit but this is Bridget's house and he wouldn't do that to her.

She's at the head of the table as usual, but it's not the usual ease and enjoyment and shit-disturber attitude for her tonight. She licks her lips, uncharacteristically nervous when he turns to her. She's been watching him, holds his tired gaze, smiles apologetically, hooks her foot around his under the table in support.

The man is a judge, federal court, more confidence than he deserves. He's new to Bridget's collection of mismatched dinner guests. Whenever Alex can make it to one of her memorable evening dinners, Bridget sits him on her left; he feels like a protégé. She knows he enjoys the drama of the clashing ideologies and usually he does, but not tonight.

The federal court judge works at the Federal Court House, of course. Bridget has reached a level in Lexington, her name on a rotation as an expert witness and the judge has taken a liking to her straight-talking no-bullshit manner, though Alex wonders how he'd feel if he knew she was a lesbian. For her part, Bridget is amused by him and invites him for dinner, a different perspective for the conversation. He talks loudly about things that maybe he shouldn't. He's talking loudly now about a young Deputy Marshal at the Lexington Bureau, a Marshal with a rifle. He's talking loudly about the need for more young men like him and like another Marshal in the same office, the cowboy, both ready at the drop of a hat to pull the trigger and no second thoughts.

"I'm sure these two boys have more kills between them then the rest of the United States Marshals Service personnel combined. And I'm not even including the numbers that the kid on the rifle likely racked up over in Afghanistan. He's a veteran, you know. Cool as they come. Never flinches."

Alex could tell him a thing or two about a US Marshal who flinches. He wants to tell him how he spent his Saturday, his day off, at the hospital with a certain US Marshal who flinches and who's on special watch now, in a depression that has Alex concerned. He repeats three words endlessly, _doctor-patient confidentiality_ , while the judge continues his preaching.

"We should send all our boys over there for the experience, harden them up before they take jobs in law enforcement back here, then they'll be ready to do what needs to be done."

Bridget stills, a noticeable collecting, when Alex finally speaks.

"Have you ever, uh, been to war, Judge Reardon?"

"Aw, now, son. You've got a doctorate. Why don't you call me Mike?"

Alex has a full glass of red wine that he thinks would look fantastic dripping down the judge's face and onto his white shirt. Bridget kicks him gently. He knows her well enough to know it's not a warning to behave at her table, but rather a reminder of his position and his responsibilities as a psychiatrist.

He smiles, plastic, brittle. "Mike, have you?"

"Son, my courtroom, every day, is a warzone."

"Really? Have you ever had to watch a court reporter bleed out from injuries while holding his hand, Mike? Or help pick up the pieces of the attorney after he steps on a landmine crossing your courtroom? Ever had to step around a bloated body or two to get to your bench and set up for the day?"

Later, Alex drinks a third glass of water and helps Bridget clean up.

"I think that's the first time I've ever had silence at my table. You deserve a prize for that. I'll have to think up something and give you a title. The Closer – that's what I'll call you from now on. I'll give you the nod when I want people to leave and you can do your thing."

Alex slouches onto a stool at the island in her kitchen. "I, uh, would like to say sorry, but…"

"Don't you dare! It was a brilliant retort." She leans over and kisses his forehead. "More water? Or would you like something stronger?"

Alex thinks about Tim asking for whiskey. Something niggles at his conscience. He wonders if it's fair to keep the alcohol from Tim. He doesn't think it's as much of a problem as the shit the man is dealing with. He toys with the idea of getting him some despite his misgivings but the hospital would never allow it. It would mean his job if they found out.

"Can I have some coffee?"

"Would you like a cigarette with that?"

"Yes."

"No smoking in my kitchen, Junior."

* * *

 


	22. Chapter 22

* * *

Bridget's in the staff room waiting when he arrives. They must've called her too, senior psychiatrist on staff. He wonders idly if she's recovered yet from all the wine at dinner, how she got here, whether they called her first or him – his mind is piling up insignificant thoughts, avoiding the why of it.

She stops him, puts a hand on his chest when he tries to get past her to the ward. "Junior, there's nothing to do. It's out of our hands. Sit with me a minute."

He looks down at her, blinks, doesn't sit so much as collapse but it's Bridget that starts crying. Alex watches her, watches the tears slip down her face. He feels numb. The ambient sounds are dulled, low-pitched, the lights blurred, and if he's crying too he can't feel it – he's underwater.

He knows he should feel more upset but it's all about another hospital and another girl. He's still upset for her, his Emma, his emotions still anchored there on the Pacific coast.

Bridget is talking, wiping her eyes with her long fingers, she's talking to him, soft and calm, talking to his grief but he's not grieving. He's not sad; he's choking on the futility of it all.

"I'm so sorry, Alex," she says. "You know they did everything they could," she says. "She was already so weak," she says.

He's not even feeling guilty. He understands Tim a little better in this moment; he's sharing a moment with him right now, this guilty guilt-free moment. _The arrogance,_ he thinks, scolding himself, and he amends his thoughts, something more truthful. Maybe he's on the periphery and can see just a little better now where Tim is. And then all he can think is what an insane world it is to allow this, to allow any of it. And he's certain he's only just scratched the surface.

His footfalls seem muted in the corridor, the murmur of voices and the usual hospital clinks and clangs and banging seem almost lethargic. The whole scene stretches out like the slow roll of a Pacific swell, slows until everything's moving in thick salty waves, lifting him and dropping him. He stops outside the door to the room, closes his eyes briefly, rides the next swell in.

Bridget still has a hand on his back in support, but rather than lifting it's pushing him down, guilt-free guilt, the guilt of not feeling anything. It's all pulling him under. He imagines looking at Tim underwater, through the gloom of the endless salty sea.

Sophia is lying on a gurney. She looks cold. They haven't covered her up yet, her nightgown torn and her hair tangled in knots drooping down toward the floor like fishing net.

She's so thin.

He always thought of her as motionless, dead, but she wasn't. He can see that now. There was always something, even on her worst day there was her shallow breathing, her fingers twitching, a hint of pulse under the skin in the hollow of her throat.

This is nothing like that. This is nothing. This is dead.

Her eyes are open and bloodshot, pupils blown wide and tar black, no green left. He looks up at the ceiling, at the harsh, angry light and wonders if that's the last thing she saw. The marks around her neck are shocking contrasts, striking and brutal colors. Her lips are blue and cracked and pulled back obscenely over dried, yellow teeth.

She's ugly.

Alex feels sick for thinking it. He looks away from her face, down her arms to her hands, her translucent skin and the blood-blue spider web of veins underneath. She must have been beautiful before all this, she must have been.

He takes a step back and finally comes up for air. Leaning against the wall for support, he watches the world, like a storm surge, rushing at him – breaking and spinning around Sophia's dead body – doctors, nurses, latex gloves, plastic sheets. Then he steps into the middle of it, listening, detached, while he talks like someone who knows what he's doing, like a doctor, like the man in the white coat with the credentials on the wall of his office. He gets all the facts straight, signs the paperwork, breaks a little around the edges.

He's failed her and he should be upset.

Back in the staff room, the coffee maker is hacking through a series of theatrical, wet-cough noises that seem disrespectful of the circumstances. Bridget's hand is back on his shoulder. She doesn't seem herself without the razor edges and the wit. He wishes she'd make some crude joke and slap him over the head, reinforce the barriers instead of tearing them down with all this naked sadness that's flowing easily from her.

They sit across from one another at the table. He warms his hands on his coffee mug; she talks about how it's no one's fault, that it must have happened quickly. They're understaffed, the alarm goes off and Sophia is left alone, just a few minutes. There's a ripped sheet twisted into a rope, all ready, tucked away under the mattress and she ties it to the bed frame. She must have been planning this.

This was her choice.

They've hooked her out of the sea, flopped her on a stainless steel table to be gutted. There will be an autopsy. She's a statistic for the administrative department, a funeral to plan, a headstone – beloved daughter and sister and friend. Shit. It's his job to call her family.

Jesus Christ. He had wanted her to choose.

* * *

Alex should go home. He should go home and sleep and shower and eat and get some distance. He needs air. He needs perspective. But he doesn't want to leave, doesn't want to be alone and boxed up inside his white walls with his dad's paintings staring at him. He decides to step outside for a while, take a break from the smell and the noise of the hospital, just for a moment to catch his breath. It's dark outside, the dark of the hour before the dawn creeps in, everything lit up in sallow yellow from the lights lining the street and in the parking lot. He rounds the corner and sees Christina sitting on a bench by a bus stop. She's smoking. It's not allowed this close to the main entrance but no one ever pays attention to the sign. Her hair is falling out from her ponytail, messy, not like her.

"It wasn't me," she says in a tiny voice when she sees him. Her eyes are wide with guilt, with the expectation that Alex is going to accuse her of killing his patient. "I wasn't on watch. I just got here when… Jesus, I've never seen a dead body before."

She shivers, her voice shivers, her fingers are shaking. It's cold for this time of year, with the pervasive damp to add extra bite, more rain coming. She flicks the cigarette nervously with one hand and taps away at her phone with the other. Alex sits down on the edge of the bench, not close enough to share any warmth, not that they could, both tightly wrapped in their own jackets and thoughts.

Christina's gaze is fixed on her phone, the light from the screen colors her cheeks an unnatural blue. Alex tries hard not to picture Sophia's pale face as they zipped it into a body bag.

"I wanted to be a chemist, you know, work in a lab – I was always good at chemistry in high school – but my parents couldn't afford tuition so…and my grades weren't good enough to get a scholarship. I didn't really work very hard for it. I guess I always just thought things would work out anyway."

Alex doesn't know what to say so he stays quiet, figures she's not expecting a response anyway. She breathes in a long drag of smoke and he closes his eyes briefly, pretends to feel it filling his lungs. She looks at him.

"You want one?"

He does but he shakes his head.

She shrugs, grinds the embers from the cigarette end into the asphalt and lights another one. "I hate this job."

Alex should go home. Instead he heads back inside to his office. He grabs a stack of medical records to read through and sits in a chair that doesn't face the window.

He wakes the next morning to a gentle shake, opens his eyes to Martha's face in a halo of fuschia.

"I heard," she says. "I just got in. I'm sorry, Alex. It's hard to lose one."

Alex sits up and blinks at her, accepts the coffee mug she holds out for him.

"I'm amazed, honestly, that she lasted as long as she did. There's part of me that wonders if I gave up on her some time ago and I feel partly to blame. Maybe I could've done more."

Alex opens his mouth to protest – who could fault Martha's work on the ward? – but she stops him with a hand on his arm.

"I'm just telling you what's on my mind so that you know you're not the only one blaming yourself this morning, okay?" She shakes her head, holds eye contact. "There's a wonderful old Russian saying – You can lead a horse to water, but you can't bend its neck. You aren't…were never…in control of her life. Now, can we talk about Tim? He's still a patient here and he needs our attention." She doesn't wait for permission to get on with it, she just does. "He sat up and spoke to me yesterday. I went to see him after my shift, before I left. He spoke to me, Alex. It wasn't much but it was something. He spoke to me and looked at me." She pats his knee then leaves for her ward.

* * *

Alex makes excuses, begs off the morning meeting and Frank allows it under the circumstances but with the promise that they'll talk later. The repetitive nodding Alex gives him in response is mindless. He's barely aware of the conversation, his mind running on another problem. Ten minutes later he's wheeling the TV back into Tim's room with a thermos of coffee and two mugs. He pours himself some and starts up the game again, Donkey Kong, makes a show of wafting the steam from his mug over Tim's way, but his audience is ignoring him.

So Alex ignores him in return. He sits with his back to Tim, feet up on the trolley with the TV on it. His mind is not really on the game and he's playing even worse than he did the day before. There's some shuffling behind him. He hears coffee being poured, more shuffling. A half hour more goes by before Tim says anything and when he does, it's memorable.

"Fuck. Dude, you fucking suck at this."

"Feel free to take over, or, I don't care, continue with your helpful comments from the peanut gallery." The game times out leaving Alex cursing but it gives him a chance now to swivel in his seat and look at Tim. "Are you done with this?" He gestures at the bed. "This Brian Wilson thing?"

"I'm hungry."

Alex tosses the game controller at Tim who manages to snag it with his splint hand and not spill his coffee. He shuffles to the side of the bed and sets his mug on the table and presses START. Alex gets up and walks out to the hall to find Tim some breakfast.

He's two levels up already when Alex comes back with a tray of food, enough for them both. Tim pauses the game and picks up the buttered toast and nibbles at it, gets a third of the way through it and trades it for his coffee.

"I had to make that shot," says Tim. He doesn't meet Alex's eyes while he talks. "I had to look out for the guys in my unit. I couldn't let that fucker get that round off. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I do."

"Even knowing what was going to happen, I'd do it again. Does that make me a bad person?"

"I don't think so. Somebody else might think so, but they're not your problem. You only have to square it with yourself."

Tim nods. "I can do that...I think."

"Can you get me past the next level?"

Alex doesn't get a smile, but Tim looks at him briefly. Alex settles into his chair and lets Tim distract him for a while.

* * *

 


	23. Chapter 23

* * *

Alex sets the phone down gently. He doesn't want to make any noise that'll jar his thoughts off the path they're walking. He's wondering if he's going to regret saying 'yes', thinks back over the conversation. Chief Deputy Mullen made a convincing argument and Alex let himself be persuaded. He's trying to decide whether he's acting instinctively on what's best for his patient or whether the US Marshals Service likes to hire particularly persuasive and manipulative personalities and he's being steered.

It doesn't much matter at this point. It likely can't hurt and it could just possibly help. He stands up and walks the halls to the ward and meets Jesse just inside the door.

"How's he doing today?" Alex says quietly, talking close. Sophia's suicide has left a scar on the staff in the mental health wing and everyone is quieter, mourning.

Jesse shrugs. "He's eating some, back on his coffee, but he's not been doing much else. I'm not late, am I?" He checks his watch. "He's seeing you at ten as usual?"

"Uh, actually, his boss is coming in this morning. He has to talk to Tim about something related to work. I...I'm not sure it's a good idea, but..."

Jesse wrinkles up his forehead and presses his lips together. "I was here the last time he came in. I think it'll be okay."

"Alright. Let me know when they're done and I'll see Tim after. Um, maybe...maybe they could meet down in the cafeteria? It might be easier for Tim. It'd be good to get him up and out. Could you keep an eye on him while…?"

"Sure. I'll go tell him."

"No. No. Let me."

Alex moves on down the hall and stands in Tim's doorway. Tim is sitting on the bed, eyes on the door until he sees it's only Alex then they're back on his fingers working the loose threads hanging off the worn cuffs of his hoodie.

"I ate," he says.

"Yeah, I got the, uh...the Jesse report."

Alex smiles. It doesn't get very far and disappears quickly, unsupported. He's noticing the cheekbones on Tim. He was starting to put some weight back on after losing a good amount the first week but any progress has halted and is now starting to reverse. Most patients on this ward gain weight, the inactivity and a side-effect of the medications – all the patients but his. He thinks about that, glances at the food tray – a half-eaten piece of toast, empty coffee mug, everything else untouched. He wishes he'd asked the Chief Deputy to bring in something tempting, something familiar and tasty.

Depression is a normal stage for grieving, Alex reminds himself. The trick is to get on to acceptance. But most people never learn that trick, they live with the sadness tucked away and it dulls everything from then on. He'd be happy to see Tim shake the blame and just be sad.

"Can we talk in here today?" Tim's voice has his attention. He's not put together more than three words for him in as many days, not since he first spoke. "I don't feel like going to your office."

"Uh, actually, we're going to have to meet later anyway." Alex is relieved to have an excuse not to answer the request just yet. He can't say yes. He can't allow Tim to stay in his room. That's not helping. "Your boss just called me. He needs to see you."

"What? When?"

"He's coming by this morning. I thought you might like to head down to the..."

"I don't want to see him. Shit. Alex, I don't want to see him." Tim's pleading but it's still talking.

"Why not?"

"What if he knows?"

"How would he know?"

Tim can't answer that.

"Tim." Happy to see some communication, Alex tries to keep it going, prods, "How would he know?"

"He always knows when I'm guilty about something. He'll know."

"We're all guilty for something. Anyway, how could he know unless you've told him?" Alex pulls a chair up facing the bed and sits down. "What do you think would happen if you told him?"

"I'm not going to tell him!"

"I'm not suggesting you do. But how do you think he'd react if you did?"

"I'm not going to tell him."

"Tim, just answer the question."

Tim's back tugging on the loose threads. "I dunno."

"Exactly. You don't know. How did I react?"

"What?"

"Describe it to me. How did I react?"

"You... I dunno. You felt bad."

"Bad about what? Be specific."

Tim pulls his knees in tightly and looks away. "You're the shrink. You tell me."

"I'm asking you to describe how _you think_ I felt about what happened in Afghanistan that day. I can't tell you that – I'm not you."

"You felt bad."

"For who?"

"For everyone, I guess. Shit, I dunno."

"That's exactly right. It was a horrible situation. I felt badly for you, for the kids, for the woman. You're all still dealing with it. There's no blame – at least not for anyone there. You were all in a terrible situation not of your own making. No one with any brains at all could possibly blame you for what happened, for any of those deaths."

"I pulled the fucking trigger."

"Yes, but why?"

"Does it matter?"

"Enormously. Turn the tables. What if it was your boss's story? Would you think him to blame?"

Tim has a thread going on each sleeve now. "You think I should tell him? Fuck, is that why he's coming in?"

" _No._ No. He called me. He's coming because he needs your help with something. And I think you should see him, judge for yourself if he's looking at you any differently this week from last week. I'm not going to suggest you tell anyone about anything. It's yours to tell or not tell. You told me in confidence and I will keep that confidence."

Someone walks by in the hall and Tim stiffens, eyes glued to the door.

"It's not him. It's, uh...it's too early. Tim... Tim…" When Alex has Tim's attention again, he says, "One of the hardest things about this job is that I can't tell anyone what to do to fix things in their own mind. Not really. I can't say, 'Do this and you'll feel better' because I honestly don't know what's going to make you accept your part in what happened. But tell me something...would you willfully kill a child?"

Tim's face wrenches itself. "I did."

"No. You killed a man with a... What was it called?"

"RPG."

"Right. You killed a man with an RPG who was threatening your friends. What happened after that was a…a fateful and unpredictable consequence of war. What would've happened if you hadn't taken that shot?"

"I don't know. So maybe I shouldn't have."

"You can't live your life like that, refusing to do anything out of fear of every possible outcome of your actions, regardless of how remote the probability. How many times did you make a shot and nothing happened but what you thought would happen? Did you know what was going to happen when took that shot? Did you imagine it all before you pulled that trigger?"

"No." It's a small word, unconvincing, powerless.

"No." Alex says it back with more force. "No, how could you know? You made the best decision under the circumstances. Tim, you're not God."

"I wish I could forget it all."

"You can't, but think about how much wiser you are than most people now. It's hard-won, that wisdom, but don't knock it. I can't imagine being in your shoes. You get past this and I'll be a, uh...a lifelong admirer. Yeah, there'll be some serious hero-worshipping going on. Total creeping." Alex stands and lays a hand on Tim's arm and shakes. "Go have a shower and get cleaned up. Your boss is coming and you stink."

"Do I have to see him today?"

"No. But he needs your help. Go shower. Clean clothes. Jesse'll take you down to the cafeteria and you can talk there. Have something more to eat…please. And come see me when you're back upstairs and tell me how it went...please."

* * *

Tim sits across from Art in the cafeteria picking at a muffin and studying a ballistics report and crime scene diagrams from an unusual shooting that has the investigators flummoxed. Art studies Tim carefully at the same time. He doesn't look happy with what he's seeing.

Half the muffin is crumbled onto the plate and Tim's eaten only a few scraps of it. He pushes it to the side finally and wipes his hand on his pants and sips at his coffee. His hair's still wet from the shower, clean shirt, clean sweats, same worn hoodie.

Art stares another minute then picks up the plate with the muffin and sets it with a thwack in front of Tim and on top of the ballistics report. Tim's head snaps up, startled, and Art stands at the same time.

"I'm going for more coffee. What can I get you?"

"Uh, nothing, thanks."

"I didn't mean can I get you anything? I meant what can I buy you that you'll _eat?"_

Tim looks down at the destroyed muffin.

"Shit," says Art and stomps off.

He comes back shortly with a fruit smoothie and a hot chocolate and a fresh coffee and scrambled eggs and warm toast with butter and sets them down together on a tray in front of Tim, covering all the reports. He sits down and reaches over and takes the fresh coffee.

"This is mine. All the rest is yours. Now eat."

"I already ate breakfast..."

"Don't lie to me. I'm going to come here every morning if they're not looking after you and make you eat a proper breakfast. And if that doesn't work then I'm going to start sending Leslie in. Trust me, you don't want that. Eat. It's upsetting me to see so much bone."

Tim picks up a fork with his left hand and starts on the eggs. Art stares at Tim's right hand, the splint.

"What's going on in here, Tim? Are they treating you okay?"

"Yeah. It's fine."

"I said, don't lie to me. What's going on?"

It just comes out. "I killed a kid, a couple actually." He says it in a monotone, still playing with the eggs.

Art grimaces and brings his free hand up to his mouth. "When? Afghanistan?"

Tim nods. Art sets his coffee down, folds his hands on the table, leans into the space between them.

"Well, you'd better explain the circumstances so I don't go home thinking you're a deranged mass murderer."

Tim's mouth feels numb; he feels like he's outside of his body. He tells Art about the day. He's screaming at himself to stop but he doesn't. He lays it all out. And Art makes sure there's not too much space left after he's done.

"Shit, Tim, I'm sorry. And that whole scene at the school, that just brought it all back, didn't it. Shit, I'm sorry, son." Art heaves a sigh. "You feel responsible?"

Tim's back inside himself, petrified. He can only manage a bare nod.

"But at the same time you're wondering what you could've done? Right?"

Tim's frozen, not looking, not moving.

"I was in a highspeed chase once, 'bout your age. The fugitive ran a red light and t-boned a van and killed everyone in it except the driver. There was a kid. I can still see it. You can imagine how many times I've wondered if we should've just backed off. It wasn't my call. I wasn't in charge, but… You can't help blaming yourself. Unforeseen consequences. We all live with it, everyone who was there. You're a good man, Tim. I couldn't have you in my office otherwise. I'm sorry it was you that day, but if not you then somebody else and certainly someone was gonna end up dead in that village and don't be so sure that it would've ended any better or worse if you'd done something different."

Tim sets his fork down, runs his good hand up across his face and through his hair.

"Dammit, Tim, pick that fork back up! You have got to eat. There's nothing left of you but sweatshirt. I need you back at the office and I need you to be able to lift more than a pen. Don't make me embarrass us both and start spoon feeding you. Now, give me your thoughts on this." Art taps at the edge of the folder sticking out from underneath the tray and Tim sets his fork down again. "No, you idiot. After you've had a mouthful!"

* * *

Tim is at the door to Alex's office, standing in front of Jesse. It looks like Jesse is propping him up. Alex jumps out of his chair and hurries over.

"Is everything okay? How did it go?"

Jesse shrugs, waves himself away, leaves Alex to it.

Alex takes Tim by the arm, pulls him in just far enough to shut the door then faces him and repeats, "Is everything okay?" He's worried it was a mistake letting Art in this early.

"I told him."

"You...what?"

"I told him. I told him everything." Tim is speaking in a monotone.

"Shit. Uh...come sit down. How did he...? What did he say?"

Tim sits down. He still hasn't looked Alex in the eye. He shakes his head. "I... He said... He told me about something that happened to him at work. Said he could never get over it."

"How do you feel about telling him?"

Tim looks up finally, still adjusting, still finding his balance. "He said sorry. He looked sorry. He made me eat some eggs." Tim squints, trying to get something into focus.

"Why did you tell him, Tim?"

Tim shrugs. "I needed to know, I guess. It was okay. It was hard." He brings his hand up and covers his mouth.

"Yeah, I'll bet. Wow. I can't believe you told him. Uh...Tim, that took courage."

"I don't know about that. I think, to be courage, you have to think about what you're doing."

"I still think it was brave of you."

They sit quietly until Tim seems to be aware again of the room. He wets his lips and looks around. Something catches his eye and he frowns. "Is that your skateboard?"

"Uh, yeah. I was cleaning out the closet in my apartment, thinking of taking it to this halfway house for single moms. I don't ever skate anymore. No time."

Tim pushes off his chair and walks over and picks it up, runs a hand across the deck then flips it over to check out the wheels. "Nice board."

"You a skater."

"Used to be."

"You any good?"

"I liked it."

Alex takes that to mean 'yes.' He shoots a look outside – it's not sunny but it's not raining either. "You want to try it out?"

"No, it's okay. It's been a while."

"Yeah, for me too. Come on." Alex grabs his jacket and pushes Tim out the door.

They make a stop at Tim's room to get his jacket and Alex makes a comment about the lettering across the back – POLICE US MARSHAL – he thinks it's funny. Can't imagine. Then they're in the elevator and sneaking out a back door into the delivery area. Alex goes first, drops the board and plants a foot and skates out onto the pavement. He feels a bit wobbly but pushes a little harder and does a couple of tic-tacs and turns. It _has_ been a while. He stops in front of Tim and neatly flips the board up and hands it over with a grin.

"Should we bet who breaks a leg first?"

Tim sets the board down and rolls his shoulders and pushes off. He takes it farther out than Alex, picks up some speed and leans into a turn then does a few tic-tacs too, throws in a one-eighty then does a low ollie up onto the walkway then a higher one back onto the pavement, confidence and feel coming back. Alex crosses his arms, hating a showoff, but he smiles when Tim does a backside shuvit and lands it. He feels like laughing, calls out encouragement. Tim shrugs, does another push and crouches. He tries to pull off a hardflip, catches his back foot on the deck, his loose runner getting in the way, and goes head first for the pavement, arms out, tucking the splinted hand against his chest at the last second, rolls and ends up on his back.

Alex rushes over, laughing and horrified and wondering how it's going to sound to the Hospital Board when he's up explaining how his patient has broken his collar bone and suffered a concussion skateboarding during a session while still sporting a splint from a fracture in his hand from a different session. Tim is laughing too, manic, tears streaming down both sides of his face, the full spectrum from elation to depression blending.

"I need some fucking shoelaces, man."

"Are you okay?"

"No. Fuck. I think I broke my foot."

"Seriously?"

Tim pulls the bottom of his hoodie up around his jacket and wipes off his face as he sits up. "Can I have another go?"

"Yeah, just… Shit, just don't break anything."

The second time he lands the hardflip and Alex cheers.

* * *

 


	24. Chapter 24

* * *

Tim rolls out of bed and stands up and trudges to the bathroom. He turns on the shower, undresses, steps in and lets the warm water slap his face for a while before soaping up. He growls into the spray, a desperate sound. It's harder this time, getting up the energy to clean up and dress. Yesterday, Alex ordered him to. It was easier when he was ordered to. Shaving is beyond him though. He can't imagine how he managed yesterday.

He dresses deliberately, not sweats, jeans, pulls on clean socks and then slides his feet into his laceless shoes and then he picks up the old hoodie from the bed and pulls it on over his head and faces the door. The door is heavier than he remembers, hard to open but the hallway is full of light from a clear sun beyond the metal grates and glass. Tim walks to the nearest window at the end of the hall where the common area is by the nurses' station and looks outside. There are clouds closing in on the horizon and he figures the sunshine won't last the day. Not that it matters to him in here.

Jesse is behind the counter, his back to him, busy with something. He's just the person Tim needs to see. He needs him to do something for him. He slips quietly around the chairs and over and says, "Hey, Jesse."

Jesse spins around. It's obvious he didn't hear Tim approaching. His expression, seeing who it is who surprised him, is guarded expectation, an expectation of something good.

"Hey," his voice complements the sunlight. "It's good to see you up. You want some coffee? I just made myself a fresh pot."

"Uh, okay."

Jesse pours out two mugs and sets them up on the counter and comes around and collects them and then they seat themselves looking out the window.

Tim doesn't want to sit here and have coffee with Jesse but he makes himself do it. He can't believe how hard it is to do something that was a highlight in his day a week ago. What's wrong with him? Why can't he just be a little bit happy with this? Why should this be so hard?

Jesse looks around the room, turns and looks down the hallway, furtive, then he leans forward to close the distance between them, speaks quietly.

"Two Rangers were killed this week in Kandahar province. I've been watching the sites since you came here, thought you'd like to know."

Tim squirms a little in his seat, feeling something raw again. "Who? Do you know? Were there names?"

"Don't recall the names. They were young though, both under twenty-five. You probably didn't know them."

"Fuck." He feels the hit, another rub against something raw. "How?"

"Don't know. Just said 'combat operations.'"

Tim nods, imagining – a long walk in the dark in the mountains, night time, limited vision, the adrenalin. He feels the weight of his rifle and the solid soles of his boots, a hand on his shoulder then silent signals with gloved fingers, fingers stretching wide so there's no mistaking the orders, eyes wide too, lips pressed tight. His heart-rate picks up in sympathy.

"You ever do an extraction?" Jesse asks. "I always wondered what that was like, bringing somebody out that didn't want to come out."

Tim nods again, remembering. "We did a lot of that."

"Who'd you pick up?"

"Wasn't really told. Insurgent heavies. High-value targets."

"Successful runs all of them?"

"No." Tim thinks back, pushing past the gray. "I remember one ended up dead that we were supposed to capture not kill, total waste. One was a bust – empty building." He looks down at his feet – his runners feel like house slippers. "Where'd you say?"

"Kandahar province."

Tim's thinking about Logar again – the deployment that led to that day. They did back-to-back extractions that week, near the Pakistan border, might've been over the Pakistan border for all he knew, quick and dirty and successful. There were a handful over a few days, some big intel run. One of the upper echelon fucks wrote them a nice letter to say 'job well done'. Tim fell asleep on his rack before the Lieutenant finished reading it out to them.

"I need to talk to Martha." Tim turns his head away, hopes there won't be too many questions.

Jesse is silent while the request registers. "Okay," he says, "Let me call down."

"I can go to her."

"Sure. Just give me a minute. Drink your coffee."

There are rings, stains, on the table where the mugs sit, his and Jesse's and countless others etched into the cheap finish. Tim stares at them, tracing the overlapping curves with his eyes. He suddenly wants out of here. He wants to go home. He wants to put his boots back on and go to work. Everything here is too heavy for him and he can't deal with it anymore. He's about to sneak down the hall and crawl back into bed when Jesse returns. Tim startles like he's guilty.

"Come on. I'll take you down."

Jesse doesn't ask why. He just makes it happen.

The smell hits him when Jesse opens the door on Martha's ward. Tim balks, stops dead in the safety zone between the double sets of locked doors and stares into the men's ward.

Jesse shuts the door again and shuts out the odor. "You're asking to come here, remember. No one's making you. And if you keep taking steps forward like you are, you won't ever have to come back here unless you want to visit Martha. She's worth the trouble though, isn't she?" He grins.

Martha's sitting at a desk in an office behind the nurses' station, back in her fuchsia scrubs. Jesse waves Tim in and leaves them alone.

"Good morning," she says. "Jesse said you wanted to see me? Grab a seat."

Tim looks around and pulls over a chair, sits unsettled, starts pulling on the loose ends of his sleeves. Martha waits patiently.

"I wanted to see the photo again," Tim says finally, looking down at his fingers moving.

Martha obliges him, passing it over with her head tilted forward trying to see Tim's face.

He takes it, takes in a breath and says, "What was his name? I didn't ask you. I wasn't very…"

She cuts off the explanation. "Private Brandon Douglas, my nephew. You didn't have to come down for this. I understand."

"You had two more pictures…"

She pulls them out, passes them over, points, "This is my sister and this is her daughter, Julia, Brandon's sister."

Tim clears his throat, his voice still feels rusty. "How old's Julia?"

"Well, she's in her twenties now. This is an old photo but it's one of my favorites of her. Why? Are you looking for a date?"

"No. I just…"

Martha chuckles at the look on his face, then stops when she sees his eyes fill up. She stands up and pulls him up and into a hug.

* * *

There's a shadowy figure sitting by the window in his room, turned away, but Tim knows who it is, knows by the casual pose and the cowboy boots perched on the bedframe and the hat that's discarded on the bed. It's past visiting hours.

"Who'd you have to blow to get through the doors this fucking late?"

Raylan looks up, smooth as ever but it's obvious that he's uneasy, the smile is forced. "That doctor of yours would have been helpless to my charms if he hadn't already decided to _dislike_ me so goddamn much. I had to get creative in alternative ways. Just what the hell have you been telling him about me?"

"You didn't shoot him, did you?"

"Nah. I may or may not have him trussed up in the trunk of my car, though."

"You work fast. I just left his office." Tim leans on the doorframe, trying for casual. He can't make it work, stands straight again and crosses his arms. "What are you doing here, Raylan?"

"What, a guy can't visit another guy at the…" he gestures pathetically around the room, trapped in his own snare – Tim would laugh if he had the energy. "…nuthouse."

It hangs between them for a few tense seconds then Tim huffs and sits down on the edge of the bed, shoulders taut. His head's pounding – he needs to eat more. "You're not that kinda guy."

"Today, apparently, I am."

There's another lengthy pause, the air feels thick. Raylan speaks first.

"Tim…"

"No."

"No what?"

"No, we're not doing…this _._ We're not. It's just wrong."

"Okay." Raylan makes a face at him. "I had to break in. They kept saying you didn't want visitors. Rachel made me bring you some clothes."

"She _made_ you?"

Raylan shrugs, drops his boots to the floor and kicks a small duffel bag over before getting up to shut the door. Tim leans over to pick it up, unzips the bag and peeks inside. He's trying to picture Raylan rummaging through his sock drawer and his headache just gets worse. He jumps a little as the bed dips and creaks, unprepared for his coworker to suddenly plunk down next to him and start shuffling the pillows around to get comfortable.

Tim glares at him. "The fuck?"

Raylan does a bad imitation of his best serious face, pulls out a silver flask from his jacket and dangles it like a worm on a hook.

Tim feels the corners of his mouth tug upward in spite of himself. "That better be what I think it is."

"Just so we're clear – this means you owe me one when you get back to work."

The thought of going back to work pushes the ready reply Tim had lined up back down his throat. It still feels off. He can hear Raylan take a mouthful from the flask before he nudges Tim's arm with it. It's whiskey, the good kind, and it burns all the way down. Tim shuffles back against the wall beside Raylan, closes his eyes, and it feels for a moment like he's somewhere else. He lets the first drink settle then Raylan predictably bulldozes the awkward silence over with bullshit.

"So… Monday, me and Nelson…" He stops, huffs, annoyed. "That _tool_ drives me up the fucking walls sometimes. You know the office dynamic is all screwed to hell without you. Everyone's so…careful." He snatches the bottle from Tim, takes another swig and hands it back before he continues. "So, we were after this asshole from Knoxville, believed to have murdered his wife and two dogs with drain cleaner, and we end up stuck in the car outside a warehouse downtown and it's pretty shady, this place, blacked out windows and shit, my neck hairs are dancing. We're sitting there for hours 'cause I've got this feeling, you know? I _know_ the cocksucker's in there…probably starring in one of those snuff movies or something…"

"Did you shoot him?"

Raylan actually looks offended. "No, I did not."

"Did you chop his arm off and feed it to the pigs?"

"That's not even funny."

"Did he rob you and spend all your ill-gotten gains on chickens?"

"Shit. Did Rachel…? Don't be such a prick. Do you wanna hear the goddamn story or not?"

Tim chuckles and it opens up some space, makes breathing easier. It lasts for an entire minute until Raylan decides to ruin it.

"You scared me, Tim," he says. It's quiet, edgy in a way that cuts. "It's good to see you."

Tim watches Raylan reach over for his hat and hopes he's leaving. He doesn't trust himself or Raylan enough to say anything. He's grateful for the whiskey, though. He takes a painfully large gulp from the flask and it hurts going down but not enough to distract like he wants it to and there's not enough of it to remove himself from here for a while. He offers the whiskey back but Raylan waves it off.

Tim's voice cracks when he speaks. "So, what was in the warehouse?"

Raylan delivers the punchline. "A bunch of empty banana boxes."

* * *

 


	25. Chapter 25

* * *

"Hey, can you get the door for me? I'm done here."

Tim pulls on his jacket while he asks, twisting and pointing to the words in large across the back, speaking with authority. He's waited for this chance and it comes to him early. Jesse told him that a new nurse was starting tonight. The new guy doesn't even blink, unlocks the door and holds it open for Tim, and Tim waltzes out with a curt, "Thanks."

He's free.

The elevator is risky so he takes the stairs to the main floor and strides out the front door. No one notices his shoes without laces, they only see the false confidence and POLICE US MARSHAL on the jacket, jeans, and a clean shirt, thanks to Rachel, a uniform of sorts for plainclothes LEOs. The air is brisk, hits him hard wearing only a t-shirt and he pulls his ragged hoodie out from underneath the shell and puts it on too. It's not enough but he figures a fast walk will warm him up. He turns in the direction of downtown and the nearest bar.

It's not a craving, not exactly; he's not sure what it is. It's more a desire to take something back and behaving badly is freedom of a sort. And he wants the bliss of a blurry mind, just for one night. He can't close his eyes without seeing an orphaned and small foot, white bone, red flesh. How else do you deal with that? No idea presents itself but drinking himself stupid.

He's warm, sweating, slips out of his jacket and turns it inside out as he steps into the dark room, loud with bad music from a mediocre house band. He walks up to the bar, a free seat by the blaring speakers, and yells for a Bud and a bourbon, separate. The bartender is quick with his order and Tim digs into the beer, cold and cutting and delicious after the walk. The bourbon goes down easily halfway through his Bud and he signals for another of each. He'll worry about how he's going to pay for it later. Maybe he'll say he's forgotten his wallet and call Raylan. Rachel might bring him water but he figures Raylan would cover his bar tab. He could say it's all Raylan's fault anyway for bringing in that tease of whiskey yesterday, reopening that taste. He smiles at the thought, grim, satisfied at the solution. It's good to have different sorts of people in your life to cover different needs.

By the third round the effects are hitting him, too much weight lost and not enough drinking the past few weeks. It feels good, the numbness creeping around the edges of his consciousness, loosening his shoulders. Therapy might be easier if he could do this every night. Better than sedatives, and tastier too. He feels better than he has in what seems like a long time.

Lexington is a small city and downtown isn't huge. Still, it's a bad bit of luck that this bar happens to be Alex's regular afterwork hangout and Tim uses a string of swear words to describe his feelings about the coincidence. Alex doesn't spot him right away. He walks in, in a coma of habit, seeing what he expects to see, sits in his usual booth. Service is slow so he finally gets up to go to the bar to order, stops dead after a few steps and stares disbelieving at the figure in the hoodie leaning on an elbow, drinking something hard and amber out of a rocks glass, neat.

Tim's been watching Alex out of the corner of his eye, knows he's been made. "Fuck." He hisses it, letting out a breath of frustration along with the word.

Alex strides over, the anger obvious to anyone looking. "What the fuck?" he yells over the music. "How did you…? Why…? What the fuck are you doing out?"

Tim goes for careless. "Do you want the obvious answer or are you looking for something deeper?"

"I'm taking you back…now! Let's go."

"Aw, come on, Alex, relax. You might as well sit down and have a drink and let me finish mine."

"You're not supposed to be drinking."

"So, light up a cigarette."

Alex pulls out a phone.

"What are you doing?" Tim demands.

"Calling Jesse."

"No, fuck, man, come on. Just…"

"You come with me then, right now!"

"Fine." Tim snatches up his glass and downs the whiskey quickly when Alex reaches for it, slams it back on the bar and says, "You're gonna have to pay though. I don't have a wallet."

"Jesus, you…" Alex doesn't finish the sentence, pays, clearly shocked at the total and what it adds up to in ounces, then gets a handful of Tim's sweater and drags him across the bar to the door. "What are you thinking?" he yells when they're clear of the bar and on the sidewalk.

"I'm trying _not_ to think. That's the point."

"This is…going backward!"

"I don't give a fuck. It's what I need right now."

"What you need right now is to stick with the program we're working at the hospital."

Tim hates the words 'program,' 'hospital,' and especially 'we.' He turns and starts walking, turns back but keeps moving away. "Just what the fuck do you know about it?" Turns back again, keeps walking.

Alex runs to catch up, grabs Tim's sweater again, stops him, holds on. "Where do you think you're going?"

Tim throws his hands out, defeated. "I don't know!"

"You have to go back."

"Fuck you! It's a free country. No, I don't. I fought for the freedom to make my own choices here. At least that's the line I got when I joined up."

He tries to pry Alex's hand off but the splint makes it impossible to get a grip on his arm. Alex yanks Tim in the opposite direction, frustrated and trying to wrestle control back. Desperate and reacting to it, Tim throws an off-balance left hook, catches Alex under the cheekbone and the follow-through catches his nose. The surprise and the force of the punch knocks Alex's grip loose, knocks his glasses to the sidewalk and he stumbles into a car parked by the curb, bounces off and sets the alarm blaring.

The action comes to an abrupt halt. The two of them stare dumbly at the car like it's scolding them for fighting. Alex feels something running down his chin, looks down and watches, distanced, as blood from his nose drops in circles on the pavement. He fishes into his pocket for a tissue but doesn't have one and brings a hand instead up to his face to wipe at it.

Tim looks over at the movement, swallows and grimaces. "Shit," he says finally. "I didn't… Shit, Alex, don't grab me like that. Don't…" His arms flop helplessly. "You can't do that. You just can't…" He covers his face with his hands. "Shit, shit, shit. How much trouble am I in now?"

The bartender bursts out the door and takes in the scene, Alex's hand up to his face, his nose dripping blood.

"Am I calling the police?" He yells the question up the street, a threat.

Tim looks desperately at Alex.

"No, no, it's fine. I tripped," says Alex. "And I wasn't even drinking." He adds the last bit and chuckles, acting, bends over and picks up his glasses.

The bartender doesn't laugh, doesn't leave, watches them cautiously. It's time to go. Alex steps up to Tim and puts an arm around his shoulder.

"Come on, asshole. We've got places to be."

Head down, Tim lets Alex lead him across the street, into a building, up an elevator, into an apartment that has a feel much like Alex's office at the hospital. Tim stands at the door after Alex lets him in, then starts a survey of the new space, peering in every room, moving instinctively to check the layout, glancing occasionally back at Alex to gauge the mood. His hand cupped under his nose to catch the blood drops, Alex just watches, curious, bemused. Tim is aware that his actions must seem odd but he doesn't care. He finishes the routine to satisfy himself, on into the kitchen where he pushes a chair against the wall facing the door and sits in it, silent, subdued. When he settles finally, Alex seems to let go, steps to the sink, bends over it, fishes for some paper towels to mop up his face.

"You get into fights much?" he asks, voice a little wretched.

It's a sheepish and mumbled reply from Tim. "Not really. Um, I used to get dragged into some back when I was a Ranger, and I get dragged into them sometimes on the job, but… I don't tend to go looking for them. Honestly."

"Yeah, me neither."

"Look, I didn't mean to... I just…" Tim drops forward after waving a hand helplessly, leans his elbows on his knees.

"I asked for it."

"I dunno about that."

Alex closes his eyes and pinches the top of his nose a little harder.

"I didn't break it, did I?"

The voice and the question sound young and Alex's response is to comfort a child. "No. It's practically stopped bleeding. See."

Pulling his hand away he looks over at Tim, works up a grin and Tim reacts to it. There's a tentative twitch of the lips in return. The room is ringing, audio backdraft from the loud bar, the yelling, the car alarm. The two men inhabit the ringing silence together, mute, each lost in thought.

Alex returns to the present first, opens a drawer in his kitchen, reaches in and pulls out a cigarette, reaches back in and produces a matchbook, lights a match, lights the cigarette, takes a long, soothing pull and closes his eyes again. The world is different with the taste of nicotine. It feels almost manageable. He exhales slowly.

"That bad, huh?" Tim shuffles his feet, lets out the breath he's been holding since he threw the punch.

"Tequila? I don't keep bourbon."

Tim is watching still, uncertain. "Yeah, okay."

Alex nods, gets two glasses and pours and joins Tim at the kitchen table. He drops his head in his hands then leans it to one side to free up his cigarette and takes another long drag in.

"How about I tell you why I need a cigarette," the smoke trails out with the words, "and you tell me why you need a drink."

Tim is still watching, still uncertain. "Gonna turn this into a session, are we?"

"I'll take any scrap I can get from you."

"Yeah, okay." Tim sits back and folds his arms protectively.

Alex pushes ahead. "So, uh…one of my patients committed suicide a few days ago…"

"Wasn't me."

For a split second, Alex wants to be angry about the glib interruption then he realizes that's just Tim and it's good to have the sarcastic prick back.

* * *

Back in his room, Tim doesn't sleep. He's remembering. It was a nice break sitting in a dark apartment with a glass of something forty proof rather than in Alex's office. He thinks back on the conversation, the apartment session is what he calls it. It made sense at the time, the dialogue, but now that he's working backward through it, it seems like a lot of rounds spent and nothing hitting the target. He has no idea what the target is.

* * *

 


	26. Chapter 26

* * *

"Alex? Is that a black eye you're sporting? Goes nicely with your tie."

Bridget's making coffee for the morning, scoops the grounds into the filter, flicks the switch on. The brew starts dripping, directly onto the hotpad. She's distracted by Alex's shiner. The sizzling gets her attention and she slams the pot under the drip, belatedly, then frowns at the machine like it's the coffee's fault, not hers. Alex is grinning at her antics. She turns back to him and plants both hands on her hips.

"Coffee will be ready shortly. It'll go nicely with a story about a young psychiatrist engaging in fisticuffs at a bar in Lexington."

Alex was amused until the last sentence. His face falls, hand comes up to the evidence. "Shit. How did you find out? God, you're not going to tell Frank, are you? Who else knows? I don't want any consequences from this. I promised him."

He realizes by the look she returns that she had no idea – it was a lucky and teasing stab. She likely didn't even know there was something to hit.

"Alex, what happened?" The teasing tone is gone.

"Shit," he says, and tells her.

"Well, is it safe to assume he's over his depression?"

* * *

Jesse comes in early the next day, gets there before his shift starts, pours a coffee for himself and Tim and walks onto the ward looking for his brother-in-arms. The common area is quiet this early in the morning so he looks there first, finds Tim in a chair near the windows watching the narrow bit of sun available on the horizon, its light bullied and crowded between the hard earth at the bottom and the promise of another gray day, a wall of gray clouds looming over top. Pulling a chair up next to him, Jesse sighs for the inadequate slice of sunshine, hands Tim a mug. Tim accepts it without a word.

"What's up, brother?"

"The sun, for a bit anyway." Tim gestures a greeting with the coffee. "Thanks."

"No problem. What's on your mind this morning?"

"I'm just thinking."

"What're you thinking?"

Coffee gets all his focus for a bit, then Tim points at the sun losing its battle with the clouds. "Every culture has a god for all this bigger-than-us shit – the sun, the ocean, life, death. I read about some of them," – a shrug – "passing time in some shithole somewhere, you know. I remember his name, Joseph Campbell, the guy who collected the stories, some myth guru." He shakes his head. "The shit people make up to accept things they can't control."

"You'd read crazy shit like that over there? Why would you do that? There was enough crazy shit over there without adding to it."

"I'd read whatever I could get my hands on, and on that particular Afghanistan holiday it was Joseph Campbell. You know what it was like – not exactly a Barnes & Noble at every crossroad."

"I'm going to bring you in some of my back issues of _Hustler_ , get your mind straightened around again to the important things."

Jesse turns a blinding grin on Tim, but it's wasted. Tim is staring unfocused through the window.

"I'm wondering if that's what you have to do, though, you know?"

"What? Read Hustler?"

"No, Jesus, listen, will you?"

"Sorry."

"No, I mean, I wonder if the only way I'm gonna deal with this is to make myself up a story to rationalize what happened. 'It's not my fault. The evil war faeries put my finger on the trigger and pulled.'"

There's a long silence and Tim finally turns to look at Jesse for a reaction. Jesse's staring at him. "Why are you telling me this shit? Do I look like Dr. Sullivan to you? Do I? A quick refresher – he's shorter, skinnier, and way whiter."

"Do you want me to make you up a story for why you're taller, bigger, and blacker? Would it make you feel better?"

Jesse doesn't laugh, not like he would've before, but he smiles – a genuine and warm smile. "You're gonna be alright, Tim. You know that? I mean, you can't help being Army, but despite all that..."

"I dunno, man. This is way bigger than me. I feel like a speck of dirt – a useless, ignorant, pathetic speck of dirt on the bottom of some god's running shoe and he's just out for a jog, eyeing the scenery to see what other shit he can stir up, doesn't even notice he stepped on me."

Jesse just keeps staring, keeps smiling.

"What?" says Tim, annoyed.

"You wanna go see Dr. Sullivan a little early today? You can talk to him about all this and I'll just stick to my area of expertise, bring you in some _Hustlers_ tomorrow."

"You're a paper pimp." Tim's mouth twitches, wanting to smile back. "Do you think he's in yet?"

"I'll call him."

* * *

Tim's standing in the doorway with Alex's skateboard tucked under his arm watching as Alex digs around in the staff kitchen for some thermal mugs, fills them with hot coffee and then starts digging around some more for matching lids. Neither of them mentions the black eye or the tequila shots.

Alex has only just arrived to work and Jesse hunted him down before he managed to reach his office, waylaid by Bridget. He told Frank he wouldn't be at the morning meeting. He's decided to take advantage of the fact that it's not raining again to get Tim outside. It seemed to help the other day, that and a skateboard. Maybe it's being a kid again; maybe it's putting him back in a place before, before a fateful and violent day beneath the sky in another world.

"Sun myths, huh?"

"Fuck, why not? How else am I supposed to deal with this? Maybe I could make up an awesome story with some vicious little fucker of a god who gift-wraps me a target with an RPG and then leads that piece of shit target into that particular fucking building and makes it okay with him that he's hiding in a room full of kids for cover and I happened to be the sorry piece of shit moron sitting behind that fucking rifle in Logar fucking Province..."

The tightening in Tim's jaw forces him to stop. Alex turns at the sudden silence, watches as Tim wrestles with his anger. He screws the lids on the mugs, considering the idea. "Huh. Okay, I'm _fucking_ intrigued. How would you start this _fucking_ story?"

"Um..." Tim stares straight through the expletives and the facetious little smirk that Alex throws at him to try and hook a smile. He's caught unprepared to follow through on the idea, hasn't thought about this story beyond the possibility. "I dunno."

Giving Tim a nudge toward the door, Alex hands him one of the mugs then hunts through his pockets for keys. "It's an interesting idea. What happened on that day, it's already a story, right, the way all memories are. But I think the, uh…the narrative, what happened to you, is understandably a bit jumbled in your head or maybe just plain overwhelming. You need to tell it, Tim, tell it through, put words on it, control how it comes at you." He finds the keys and walks Tim out of the ward and onto the elevator. "There's no reason a war myth and a vicious fucker of a god can't be a useful tool in making sense of it. So, a starting point… Uh, how about a good name for this god?"

"Mother-Fucking Prick." The name comes spitting out as Tim hoists the board up under his right arm so he can hold the coffee in his left, the one without the splint. "'Cause that's what he is – a prick that fucks with everyone's mother. Dead mothers, crying mothers, somebody's baby dying every few minutes or so..."

They're alone on the elevator. Alex is grateful considering the colors coming out of Tim's mouth. Maybe it's because they're alone too, that Tim throws in something personal. "You know, my mom died right after that. I got leave when I got back to the States to go see her. She didn't last long after the diagnosis. Maybe that's why I forgot or... She looked terrible. She'd lost so much weight. She thought it was just because she was worried about me over there, didn't think that... I take after my dad, I guess. I've always been skinny. A lot of guys put on weight when they're done. Their metabolism changes, slows down, they stop working out..." His eyes won't settle. "Am I gonna show you how to do a shuvit today?"

"Tim, hey…"

Alex reaches over and tugs Tim's sleeve, trying to get him to focus, narrow down his attention to one thing. Tim looks down at the hand.

"I'm sorry about your mom." Alex lets go, steps back a little. "You haven't said much about your family. Tell me something about her, something before she got sick."

The elevator opens onto the main floor and they walk past reception, step out the doors and into a bit of sunshine. Tim drops the board beneath the sign that says "No Skateboards or Inline Skates Allowed on Hospital Property," plants a foot and pushes off. His hands up to hide his face, Alex hustles after him, hoping security doesn't see, or won't recognize him if they do.

Tim is out of sight a minute later, off the sidewalk and onto the parking lot then around the building on the roadway to the back, to the shipping and receiving area. When Alex finally catches up, Tim is working his pop shuvits, lands two in a row and then tries something different. The board ends up upside down and Tim's on the pavement rubbing his knee.

"Fuck. I used to be able to do those."

"What?"

"Tre-flips." He's back up and kicks the board over with his foot, gets on and tries again, and again and again, and finally pulls it off, board right-side up, lands on his feet this time. He looks back at Alex sitting patiently on the curb and actually smiles, unaware, then skates over. "Funny how your feet don't forget."

"Yeah. Brains are pathetic, they should take lessons. Uh, did your brain forget what I asked you in the elevator?"

Tim drops onto the curb beside Alex and rests his arms across his knees, looks up and works his mouth, finally says, "She would make me say grace at dinner from when I was twelve. God, I hated that – I was always hungry and it killed me to wait and she made me do it right." He rocks the board back and forth with his foot while he talks then gives it a little push in Alex's direction. "She insisted I wear a helmet when I skated. I used to hide it in the bushes outside the apartment building when I went out, pick it up later. I even dragged it along the sidewalk to make it look like I used it. I broke my wrist and my collarbone once. She made me promise I'd stop after that. Yeah, right." Another small smile. "It was good, especially when my dad was away. We got along, me and her. It was good when it was just us."

Alex finds himself mirroring Tim, resting his arms on his knees, one foot on the board. He chews his lip, squints up at the pale sunlight and waits. He wants to hear more but doesn't dare draw attention to the fact that Tim is talking, doesn't want to force a direction either, so he leaves some space wide open for Tim to fill. The silence makes the seconds that pass seem long. The wind picks up. It's sheltered where they're sitting but he can see it blowing the trees past the corner of the building. It's quiet back here this time of day, empty. It'd be a good place for a smoke, he thinks.

"They told me the very day I got back. I went home right away. Do you think that's why I never...? I stayed a couple weeks, went back to base for training. Back and forth a bit until she died. You know how it is." Tim stands up, toes Alex's foot. "Come on, Sigmund – shuvit or bust. Show me your ollie."

The four wheels and the pavement don't look very friendly today, but Alex is willing if it'll get Tim further along. He stands up, trying to look enthusiastic, pushes off and skates around a bit, a warm-up, getting his balance, getting the feel. He does a low ollie without the curb as an obstacle to mess him up. His feet remember. He does another one, a little higher, grins and relaxes a little so he goes for the curb. Except for the once yesterday with Tim, Alex hasn't been on a skateboard since he left California. He's trying to get into Tim's past but now it's his own memories that keep intruding as the pavement rolls beneath him.

He remembers busting an ankle trying a kick-flip outside the abandoned warehouse down the block from his house – there was a gap in the fence to get in and lots of open space. He spent hours there until he was stuck in a cast for six weeks. Being there was as much about breaking the rules as having a place to skate. You could hear the ocean some days if the wind was right.

The board just came to him one day, that first one, from one of his dad's customers, a brand new Betty Boop riding a saber-toothed tiger wrapped up in bandages, and the guy just handed it over, just like that – _Here you go kid, enjoy._ Alex had practiced on the street behind the shop at first. Emma said he looked like such a dork. Sisters were the first girls to make you feel stupid – toughened you up for later. Then it's her smile he remembers, crooked teeth, dark eyes, hair that looked almost red in the strong California sunlight.

He jumps the curb the first time, distracted thinking of Emma, and makes it look easy, too easy to be anything but dumb luck and not over-thinking it. But the success gives him a confidence boost and that makes his next try too fast and sloppy, overthinking now, over eager, sending him hard to the unforgiving concrete. The board lands annoyingly right-side-up and rolls down the shallow slope toward Tim who's watching, his face blank.

"Ow, fuck," Alex mutters and glares over at Tim from where he's landed, daring him to laugh. Alex's ass is sore. He tries bending his neck back and forth and rolls up his shirtsleeve to inspect the damage. There's a small blood smear staining his elbow, staining his shirt, staining his drunken-mishap tattoo, the bold-font words of it now underscored in red – FUTILITY SUCKS.

"Fucking fuck," he says to the irony, but his swearing has no heat to it, bewilderment maybe. What the fuck is he doing out here? Then he starts chuckling.

The sound of the board's wheels clicking on pavement echoes off the back wall. Tim's up again and trying trick after trick, combos, manic, aggressive about it. He falls, gets back up again, tries something harder, falls harder, tries again, then something more complicated, lands it, again, again, falls again, finally falls hard trying to jump up onto the two-foot wall that lines the delivery bay. He stays down this time.

Alex gets to his feet, forgets his scrapes and bumps and runs over. There's a groan from the prone figure, Tim gasping for air.

"You alright?" Alex asks, leaning solicitously over Tim's body on the pavement. "You okay?" He plants his hands on his hips. "Do I need to call an ambulance?"

" _The only mother-fucking prick there was me!"_ The word 'prick' echoes off the cement and brick, takes Alex by surprise. "I was so fucking proud of my shooting. I was so fucking proud that _I never miss."_

This is a minefield and Alex chooses to walk into it. "Then I guess every soldier's a prick, at least by extension of your ideas."

Tim stays down, wraps his arms tightly. "The people there, they'd say that every Pashtun loves to fight but hates to be a soldier."

"Do you like to fight?"

"I _liked_ to fight, yeah. Fuck, I still do. I like my job now – it's got some of that. I liked being a soldier too, for a while."

"Can you separate the two, in your mind – being a soldier from fighting?"

Tim thinks about it, shakes his head still lying on the pavement. "That's what I was trained to do. That's what they paid us to do."

"Then by the semantics that you grew up with, they're the same. You're not a prick, Tim, no more than I am anyway. Don't judge yourself by a reference that holds no meaning for you. I'll bet that saying is an English translation of some original Pashto going way back. You can never get the full meaning in a translation, not really, not the history of a country always being invaded and the culture that's grown with it. Remember our problems with the _Tao Te Ching?"_

Tim looks away, lifts his leg and plunks it on the skateboard that's rolled to a stop against him, pushes it back and forth with his foot. "I have another tat I never showed you, more like your dad's." He pulls up his shirt and reveals crossed sabres on his chest. "There's a line in their national anthem that says it's the land of swords." He points, frowns, pulls his shirt back down. "I was going to get a rifle put over top, superiority – but... It didn't take being there long to see that you don't beat those people on their own turf. The Russians got that, eventually, and the Brits before them. There's this poet there, Ghani Khan, one of the translators we worked with gave me a book of his stuff to read...in English. There's one bit I remember still – 'Pashtun is not merely a race but, in fact, a state of mind; there is a Pashtun lying inside every man, who at times wakes up and overpowers him.'"

"You feel like it's overpowered you some days?"

"It did there – I know it did." Tim's eyes settle back on Alex. "I grew up there, in Afghanistan among the Pashtun."

"Yeah, I guess you did. Feel old?"

"Fucking ancient. It hurts I feel so old."

Alex is feeling old too. He wonders why he bothered giving up smoking. "Speaking of feeling old," he says, smiles down at Tim, "...I hurt and I need a band-aid and my coffee's cold. Let's go in before we wind up back in Emergency again."

Tim holds out a hand, lets Alex help him up.

* * *

 


	27. Chapter 27

* * *

"It's the framework _around_ the system, Alex, the design. That's what decides the measure of control. I figure it's not only the watching, you know, it's the way they talk, and how I talk too, because I'm part of it, and it's all just how we're supposed to talk to each other in order for the system to work. Hey, are you listening? Hey, Alex, do you think people know? About the design, I mean? I can't figure out what I've done wrong to be on this side of it. You sure it's alright to go out today? It isn't raining."

Alex glances out the window and it jars his sore neck. He rubs the scraped elbow through his shirt, thinks about the grounding sound of skateboard wheels on asphalt for a second, then he looks back over at Andy who's got a suitcase packed and a suit on, snakeskin shoes tied neatly. His pants are too short for his long legs and his socks don't match – one blue, one yellow.

"Yeah, I'm sure it's safe. And Andy, you haven't done anything wrong. That's not why you're here and that's not why you're moving today. You'll like this new place. Remember what we discussed yesterday?"

Andy smiles, wide and honest, looks Alex in the eye and there's a glint there, mischief maybe, a furtive kind of astuteness. Alex smiles back, he's going to miss Andy and his theories and his sharp, peculiar personality.

"Yeah," he says, scratching his beard, "I remember – bigger rooms and an art program. But you won't be there, so we can't talk anymore. Hey, listen up – you know it's not just in here, right? And it doesn't matter which side – it's everywhere. And you're in it too, Alex – you're locked in here too."

There's still a crack in the window behind the dented grate where Andy smashed it with a chair in his first week on the floor. There are no blinds or curtains on this ward; the light from outside is harsh without the rain and reveals all the imperfections of the room, the worn down floor and gnawed paint on the walls, breaking apart in the corners. Andy stands in the doorway now, like a silhouette, shuffling a little back and forth, nervous or excited or both. Alex steps up to him and puts a hand on his shoulder, pushing him gently out into the corridor.

"Maybe, but no system is set in stone, even if it feels that way. Things change. Things are always changing, and some things get better, right?"

"If you say so. Hey, did you know they used to treat depression with ice baths?"

"You sure you got enough socks, Andy?"

"I'm not worried about socks."

"Okay, that's good. Are you worried about moving?"

"No."

There's a nurse waiting for Andy in the common area. Alex stops and reaches out a hand to shake, a goodbye. Andy peeks down at it, head tilted, then he grins and swoops in to grab Alex around the waist in a tight hug, almost lifting him off his feet. Alex breathes out a surprised _ooph,_ and then he's laughing, hugging Andy back.

"Uh…alright buddy, you can put me down now."

Andy does, he takes a step back and gives Alex a brisk pat on the side of his face before marching down the hall and out the doors.

* * *

Alex is at his car when he remembers what he forgot – there's always something and today it's his keys. Now he has to walk around the building to the public entrance. And the rain's picking up again.

This day just won't end, he thinks – two new patients in, one old patient out. It's already past nine and he's starving for some real dinner and a drink maybe, maybe two, and a cigarette that he won't have. He trots past a busy reception area, hoping not to be noticed, rides the elevator upstairs and jogs to his office. The door is closed when he gets there – maybe the evening cleaning crew is efficient for a change – but he tries the handle, hoping. It's locked.

"Fuck," he curses and starts wandering looking for someone with keys. He ends up down at the staff room and does a circuit of the connecting hallways, finally sees head-to-toe fuschia turning a corner just as he does at the opposite end, and he sprints and calls out, "Hey, Martha, wait up."

She stops. "Hi, Alex. Go home."

He's happy it's Martha – somehow it makes the embarrassing situation easier.

"I'm trying. So you're on nights this week?"

"I switched with someone."

"Again?"

Martha just sighs.

"I'm, uh…locked out of my office."

"How many times is this now?" She follows him and opens it with a master key from the locked drawer.

"Thanks," he says, a boyish grin, and she returns it with a motherly one, pats his shoulder and leaves.

He goes through every drawer, checks the shelf, the filing cabinet, shuffles around the other side of his desk to get to his coat tree to search the pockets of the jacket that he also forgot. He steps on them. The keys were pushed off his desk at some point during the day, down onto the floor beside the trash bin. He leans over to pick them up, notices the bag from the bin is missing, figures the cleaning staff forgot to replace it with a new one until he sees his container from lunch in the bottom, his banana peel from this morning.

He stares, processing, then panics.

The keys are left on the floor. Alex races down the hall and through to the doors of the ward and he remembers too late that his fob is on his key chain. He bangs on the doors. Tim was his only patient this morning before he had his coffee and his banana. He bangs on the doors harder and an orderly pops his head out from a room then ambles over and lets him in and Alex is through and past him and running full out down the hall. He hardly slows, pushes into Tim's room and it's empty.

The orderly has called the floor nurse and he's standing, bewildered, behind Alex. "Everything okay?"

"Where is he?" Alex demands.

"Looks like he's in the bathroom." He points to the adjoining door. "Light's on." The nurse walks over and knocks. "Tim? Everything alright?"

"Jesus Christ." The door jerks open; Tim's standing at the sink. "Can't a man jack-off in peace?" He stops when he sees Alex, draws away from the fury in his expression.

"Where is it?" Alex is almost shaking. "Where is it?" he yells.

There's a shadow, quick, and then a wry grin. "Fuck, Alex. Calm down."

Alex turns to the nurse. "Can you give us a minute?"

The nurse looks ready to disobey but Tim shrugs, careless, and decides the matter for him. He turns and leaves.

Alex is breathing hard, backs up a few steps and sits on Tim's bed, drops his head in his hands. "Jesus."

Tim follows him into the room. "You need a sedative? They give them out here for free."

"It's not funny!" Alex looks like he's going to be sick, yells, "Where's the bag from my garbage can? I want it – _now!"_

"What?"

"Don't!"

Tim huffs, steps back into the bathroom, comes out with the plastic bag and Alex's shoelaces and the Super Mario figurine. Alex reaches for them, but Tim throws them into the air before he can grab them, straight up into the middle of the room and the bag opens and billows and Mario floats, suspended by the laces from the makeshift parachute, caught in the air for a weightless moment, then falls not too quickly, settling finally on the floor between them.

Tim slides his back down the wall until he's sitting, leans over and picks up his toy, drops his arms casually over his knees.

Alex is silent, staring at the parachute.

"I don't know if it'll make you feel better about your ridiculous behavior – maybe worse," Tim says, his voice quiet, "but I'd never... What do you shrinks call it? Suicidal ideation or something? That's just not my thing."

Alex presses his hands into his face, digs his fingers into skin. "God, you fucking scared the…"

"Yeah, well…chill."

"What else have you stolen from my office?" It comes out loud, accusing.

Tim smirks, and Alex wants to punch him.

"Just this stuff. You're not very observant and you're easily distracted. It's just a game I was playing. The only way I'm dying in here is from boredom."

Alex gestures angrily at the parachute. "So you are fucking MacGyver after all. Only he wasn't _an asshole."_

Tim seems to be getting it now, that Alex really is angry. "You ever seen anyone die, Alex?"

"No! I told you that before. So what? So _what?_ I've been around it."

"But you haven't seen it."

"I said no! So, fuck you! _No."_

"I have. Lots. I wouldn't do that to you, or anyone. It's alright. I can live with this."

Tim drops his head, fidgets with the parachute, presses all the air out, folds it. It presses all the anger out of Alex, watching him – he's like a kid.

"What happened wasn't your fault."

Tim shrugs, like nothing's important and he feels nothing. "I know."

"Yeah, I know you know, but do you believe it?"

"I know, okay? I mean, really, I know. But I still wish I could make it right, okay?"

Alex sighs, not sure he's getting through. Some days, he wishes he'd become a tattoo artist. "It's not up to you to make it right. It's a world problem. What happens over there, it's as much my fault as yours."

Tim turns the figure around and around, his fingers working, perpetual motion. "Imagine if it didn't happen?" Another shrug. "It'd probably be something else."

"Way to make yourself feel better."

"Do I want to feel better?"

Alex slides off the bed onto the floor facing Tim. He holds out his hand and Tim bundles the laces and the plastic bag and Mario and tosses them over for inspection.

"How did you cut these?"

"Oh, I got razor blades in the bathroom. You want those too?"

Alex's head jerks up and Tim's smirking again.

"Fuck off."

"Do you talk to all your patients like this?"

"No. Only the assholes."

Alex stands up and undoes his belt and pulls down his pants. Holding up his shirt with one hand he points to the word inked across his left cheek – ASSHOLE. "And here's my other tattoo – one asshole to another."

Tim starts laughing and then crying and there's no stopping it, no telling where one starts and the other ends.

Alex slides across the floor and leans against the wall next to Tim. After a minute he puts his arm behind Tim's head and gets him in a headlock and pulls him closer. "I would've shown you my ass weeks ago if I'd known it would get an honest reaction out of you," he says eventually.

"I'm fucking tired of crying."

"It'll stop. It's just something that should've happened a few years ago."

"Borrowed time. And I'm paying fucking interest."

"It shouldn't be you paying."

"Who then?"

"I dunno, but not you." Alex takes his arm back, tucks the parachute in his pocket. "You can have this back when you leave."

"Fuck, you keep it. I like Donkey Kong better, remember?"

"Is there anyone else you want to cry for while you're here? Seriously, it's the perfect place for it, you just have to tell me who and why and then the crying's free. Hell, maybe I'll join you."

"Jesus Christ, Alex, don't get me started. You want me in here the rest of my fucking life?"

* * *

 


	28. Chapter 28

* * *

"Junior."

Alex is asleep, his legs propped on his desk. He jerks violently when he hears her voice and his feet slip off and crash to the floor.

"Bridget," he breathes, drops his forehead with a thud onto the open file he was reading before he dozed off.

"Have you looked out the window at all in the last hour?"

Alex checks his watch – it's 8pm and he should've gone home two hours ago but he doesn't want to sit in his apartment. He thinks less about Sophia here, oddly. He obliges Bridget and looks out the window. Not that there's much to see. They are apparently underwater.

"It was a dark and stormy night..." he says, ominous inflections.

Bridget walks in behind him and peers over his shoulder at the file. "How's your Marshal doing?"

"He's, uh...okay, I guess. He's got a lot to digest."

"Do you think he'll be alright?"

"There's still a lot to talk about. I am not going to make a prediction."

"Afraid of disappointment?"

"Afraid it'll crush me."

She squeezes his shoulders. "Drive me home and I'll make you some dinner. Let's open some wine tonight."

He turns to look at her. "Drive you home? You biked? You've got a knack for picking the worst days."

"I'm a genius at predicting weather. Whenever I bike, lock down your shutters and wear your storm gear." She smacks his head. "Go get your car and pick me up at the front. I don't want to get wet."

He huffs.

"Age has its privileges."

The wipers are moving at a frantic pace trying to keep the windshield clear. Bridget lives ten minutes from the hospital. They've been driving five when Alex slams on the brakes and backs up. He stops the car by the curb, beside a lone figure walking in the rain, complete misery, drenched, hunched beneath a hoodie that's providing little protection from the weather. His sweatshirt and pants are soaked through, hands deep in his pockets, shoes loose with no laces, sloshing through the puddles. He's leaning into the wind and the rain which feels like sleet at this temperature. He doesn't hear the car.

Alex jumps out and runs over, peeks at the face hidden in the hood, yells, "Where the fuck do you think you're going?"

Tim stops. His shoulders, pulled up around his ears against the cold, slump dramatically when he realizes he's caught. It's comical.

"Jesus, you're going to die of exposure out here tonight. Get the fuck in the car!"

Alex gets back in, dripping, slams the door. He looks over and catches Bridget giggling. "It's not funny! How did he get out this time? I've warned all the staff about him."

"This time?" Bridget starts laughing again. "It's not the first time it's happened on that ward, Alex. Maybe it's a good sign that he wants out so badly."

The back door opens and Tim slides into the seat. He's soggy and shivering. When Alex turns to glare at him, he just shrugs.

"I thought we discussed this. What you are doing out again?!"

"Same – hoping to find a bar open."

"You haven't even got a wallet, remember?"

Tim wipes his wet sleeve across his wet face.

"Could you possibly be wetter? Or stupider?"

"You got a towel?"

"Do you have a conscience?"

Tim makes a ridiculous face. "I'm still trying to work that out."

Alex hopes Bridget will join him in the disciplining, but he's disappointed; she laughs out loud at Tim's last comment.

"Where do you live, Mr. Gutterson?" she asks. "Maybe we can stop if it's not too far, pick you up some dry clothes, then I'll make you both dinner at my place and _then_ we'll take you back to the hospital."

It's so reasonable, the way she puts it out there.

"Okay," says Tim.

"Not okay." Alex is spluttering. "What the hell? Maybe I don't want him back."

Bridget pats Alex's arm, calming, then she turns in her seat and takes a good look at the soggy Marshal. "What's your address, little runaway?"

Tim rattles it off, sheepish under her amused gaze.

Alex is still furious when they arrive at Tim's building, so Bridget insists he wait in the car and she accompanies Tim inside. Fortunately, the super is in and recognizes Tim. He grins and unlocks the door for them and opens the door too, for Tim's apartment. Bridget watches Tim step through into his space and take a deep breath in. He wanders the rooms touching things, and she doesn't rush him. He opens the fridge tentatively, expecting the worst, but someone has cleaned it out. He opens a cupboard next, pulls out a bottle and holds it up for Bridget to see. She grins, nods once and he reaches in again for two glasses and pours.

She holds up hers and says, "Here's to getting you back home, permanently."

His grin is sadder than hers, but he touches her glass with his and downs the lot, leaves the bottle on the counter for her and goes to the bedroom to change. She thinks he looks different when he comes out, jeans and a couple of layers, a tee and a warm plaid button up shirt that make him look a little more like a southern boy, a little less generic. It suits him.

Taking a plastic bag from a kitchen cupboard he stuffs his soaking hoodie into it to carry it back with him then motions for the door but stops first, pulls a small firearms lock box out of a drawer by the fridge, runs a hand over it, sets it back and frowns.

Bridget recognizes its purpose, raises her eyebrows and he catches it.

"Don't worry," he says. "I don't have a key for it. It's with my stuff...that and my wallet."

"Do you wish you had the key?"

He doesn't hesitate. "Yeah. That's my favorite gun. I love the feel of the metal. I miss it. I feel handicapped, like someone's cut off an arm."

She makes no comment.

He leaves his sodden shoes at the door and laces up some dry runners, springs up and down a couple of times in them and Bridget smiles. Tim grabs an umbrella for her and a rain jacket for himself and they run back out to the car.

Alex looks relieved to see them.

"You worried I'd hog-tie her and make an escape out the back?" says Tim.

Alex doesn't laugh; he doesn't smile. He says angrily,"You really think this is all funny, don't you? What were you hoping to accomplish by sneaking out again?"

"Relax, Alex. I just needed some fresh air."

Alex turns around so he can see Tim fully. They stare each other down and Tim's frustration becomes verbal.

"You try sitting in an eight by twelve room for a month. I'm sick of it! I'm sick of thinking about things I don't want to think about. I want to get back to work and worry about other people's shit. I think I finally get why you do this job. You don't have time to think about your own problems you're so busy fixing everyone else's. It must be a fucking holiday. I'll bet you've got some huge issues that you don't want to talk about either. Fuck. Leave it alone, will you? I've been doing everything you ask – I get a night off."

Alex feels Bridget's eyes on him, wondering how he'll react to the fact that Tim has struck the truth of it dead center, hit the bulls-eye without a loaded rifle even. He's a natural, a sniper aiming for the center of mass of the emotions that drive Alex. Alex turns away from the shot, focuses on driving through the sleet storm to Bridget's.

Later, they're sitting at Bridget's table, warm and dry, and Tim is scraping the remainder of each dish onto his plate and obviously enjoying every scrap.

Alex is drinking liberally and Bridget is his accomplice. It's late, crowding in on midnight. They're at the bottom of a second bottle of wine and she gets up and plunks a bottle of brandy between them after dinner. They all get a little drunk. It seems a good night for it.

When Tim said no to the wine, Bridget got him a beer. When he says no to the brandy, she studies him a minute then produces a nice bourbon from her cabinet and is rewarded with an appreciative smile. She explains it was a hostess gift from a recent dinner guest, a judge, Mike Reardon, and asks if Tim by any chance knows him.

Tim's fork stalls on its way to his mouth and he chuckles uneasily. "We call him 'The Hammer.'"

Alex huffs. "Admiration or disdain?"

"He sat right where you're sitting," says Bridget, trying to divert Alex's anger into something useful. "And talked about you and some of the other marshals."

Tim doesn't react much. "Huh. Really?"

"Alex was the model of restraint. He didn't let on once that he knew you."

Tim looks over at his doctor. The conversation was politely superficial while they ate and for the most part just between Bridget and whichever of the two men she was addressing at the time.

Alex feels the compliment, frowns, not sure he deserves it. "I wanted to punch him. Do you think I would've gone to jail?"

Tim has just shoveled the last forkful of food into his mouth, snorts and spits some out. He wipes it up, embarrassed, says sorry, but he's grinning. He sits back and considers the man across the table, a different backdrop than he's used to, drinks and a warm room and a buffer, Bridget. "More likely he'd have shot you. He usually wears a .38 under his robes on the bench – a Colt Detective Special, Raylan tells me – that, and a red Speedo and not much else."

"I don't know anything about guns," says Bridget. "But I can take a psychiatrist's stab at why a judge might feel inclined to go almost naked under his robes." She taps her mouth. "Red, you say?"

"I try to know as little as possible about judges, but I know a bit too much about guns."

"Do you have a favorite?"

Tim shrugs. "Right tool for the job. It depends. The Glock's a good handgun."

She leans forward, curious. "But do you have a 'baby'?"

Tim looks embarrassed, flicks a quick eye to check on Alex before saying, "I keep an old Remington 700 for myself. I'm a rifle guy. It's all tricked out just for me. I love shooting it."

"Even after everything?" Alex asks. There's no accusation. He's back in therapist mode, wanting Tim to think.

"Are we back to that? A little Tao Te Ching? _Weapons are the tools of violence; all decent men detest them."_ Tim shakes his head. "No rifle ever let me down. If there's blame, it's all on me."

"But is it, Tim? Is it really that simple? You told me this week that you know what happened wasn't your fault. Were you lying to me? I understand the need to get control of things, and taking responsibility is one way to do that, but is it being honest? Or are you just blaming the victim? And by that, I mean you. Nobody wants to be a victim; nobody wants to feel helpless. But sometimes that's the truth of it, and it sucks and you want to blame yourself just to tidy up the senselessness. Does it really help you any, though? Does it help anybody?"

Tim can't answer; he plays with his fork on his plate.

Alex starts to push. "What happens next time, Tim? What happens the next time something triggers a bad or violent memory? Are you prepared for it or are you just going to blame yourself for all that too. Are you going to blame yourself for Stover and Toad and that kid and that teacher and all the other deaths? All we've done," he points between them, "is uncover this one thing. I'm not letting you back out there until I'm reasonably confident that you've aired out as much of your other shit as possible. And don't...just don't try to tell me there isn't more!"

Bridget has been quiet, letting the storm blow through. When Tim pushes back from the table and finishes his bourbon in a quick and violent motion, she lifts the bottle and pours him another shot then speaks.

"I think we all wish for simple answers. But most of the time, situations are too complex to understand fully. It would be nice to be omniscient, omnipotent, always right and righteous and prepared and equal to the task, but none of us are." She tops up Alex's glass then hers. "We'd be out of work," she says, waving the brandy bottle between herself and Alex.

Alex realizes as he watches Bridget pour Tim another drink, that she's giving Tim some control back, the choice to say yes or no to more bourbon; the choice of behaving how he wants at her table; the choice of living his life, ultimately, how he likes. She's teaching Alex something tonight, though she might not be aware of it: trust runs both ways. He knows it already but sometimes you need a reminder.

"I like the irony in you drinking that bourbon," says Alex.

Bridget laughs; Tim doesn't. There's a ghost in the room that he's fixated on, that only he can see.

Bridget leans over and snags some of the plaid shirt between her fingers. "Tim?"

"You really think there's gonna be a next time?" He looks at Alex, at Bridget. "That this could happen again? Fuck, I can't do this again."

Alex and Bridget both shift in their seats, uncomfortable at the direction the discussion has taken.

Bridget begins, "The human mind is complex..."

Alex interrupts, "Tim, I honestly don't know. How could I know? You're probably blaming yourself for all kinds of shit that you had no control over."

"You have an opportunity here," says Bridget.

Alex thinks she's talking to Tim but she's looking at him. He feels the pointed end of her comment and reacts to it. "Fuck off."

Bridget holds Alex's pissy gaze smugly, swirls her brandy and waits.

"Did I miss something here?" Tim looks confused. "Were you talking to me or her?"

"Her," says Alex, directs the next words at Bridget. "My sister killed herself. It was a purposeful overdose."

"You never told me that." But Bridget doesn't look surprised.

"I didn't want to believe it. I wanted to think if I'd just done this or that...I dunno...paid more attention or visited that day that I could've prevented it. I mean… I was studying _psychiatry_ at the time and I keep wondering what the fuck good it did me...or her. The doctor said there was no way she could've injected that much heroin by accident. I hated to hear it; I hated hearing that I couldn't do anything to stop it. I felt impotent and useless. I still do some days. I hate feeling that small. How small do you feel, Tim, when you think back on the war and all the shit that happened?"

Tim slides a hand across the table for his bourbon, lifts it before it gets to the glass to squish his thumb and finger together as tightly as possible. "Sometimes about this big," he says then wraps his hand around the glass and drags it back to the edge. "Couldn't possibly get smaller. Sometimes, though, well mostly, we were larger than life. On top of the fucking world."

"How do you keep perspective?"

"On what? War? You can't. That shit's shifty. That's a whole other reality."

* * *

 


	29. Chapter 29

* * *

The next morning, Tim appears at the door to Alex's office for his ten o'clock session.

"Hey, Tim."

"Hey." Tim shuffles in, sits in his usual chair.

Alex is sober now and practical. "How did you get out?"

Tim pauses before he answers. "I'm not sure I want to tell you. I was going to make some money selling my secrets to the other inmates."

"One of the maintenance staff was, uh...cleaning gum off the magnetic locks on the east doors this morning."

"Huh. Really." Tim feigns innocence.

"Were you going to come back?"

Tim cocks his head. "I put the gum there so I could sneak back _in."_

Alex blinks. "Oh. But then, how did you get out?"

"You know, one of the skills you pick up in the military is how to get shit done. Now, it's not explicity offered in a course, it's just something you learn as you go, kinda necessity. You lie, cheat, bribe, sneak, get creative, sticky tape and bubble gum – whatever it takes to follow orders, no matter how ridiculously impossible they seem. You just _get it done._ Nobody cares _how_ as long as you don't get caught doing anything you shouldn't be doing."

"Lucky for you Bridget was with me last night or I might've dragged you up in front of a court martial."

"Oh now, it's a smart officer who appreciates a little entrepreneurial spirit, a little ingenuity."

"Where'd you get the gum?"

"I'm no snitch."

Alex nods. "Okay, fine, be like that. So, uh...what were you hoping to accomplish, going to a bar in a sleet storm?"

"I was just obeying orders."

Alex pauses. "Whose orders?"

Tim grins, taps his head. "I get orders all the time. The military planted a chip. They make me do things."

"That's not funny."

Tim drops the grin. "Yeah, it is. So, you wanna talk about my dad or yours?"

Alex picks up the grin. "You first. If we run out of time, I'll talk about my dad with Bridget."

"Fair enough."

* * *

"I think this is about the dumbest place you could choose to hide out – in a bar. You must've known it'd be the first place we'd look."

Tim glances up, caught, but it doesn't stop him from downing the last of the liquid in his glass, licking the remains off his lips, and he doesn't look guilty about it.

"If I wanted to hide, Art, I'd be in a church. I'm not hiding. I'm drinking."

"Yeah, I can see that." Art signals the bartender for another round, pulls out a chair and sits and eyes his deputy. "What're you doing?"

"Is this a trick question?"

Art stares back blankly, sucks all the hot air out of Tim's reply.

"The hospital's frantic, Tim. They reminded me, when they called for my help finding you, that you have rather extensive and intimate knowledge of firearms. Like I needed reminding."

"That sounds erotic."

"It does, doesn't it? Kinda Freudian. Though, they may not have said it exactly like that. They may have said that they were concerned about suicidal thoughts and wondered if you had any guns at your apartment."

"They? You mean Alex?"

"Dr. Sullivan."

"He called you?"

"Suicidal thoughts?"

"He's over-reacting. I don't have any suicidal thoughts. Murderous, maybe…"

"Tim…"

Tim's chest constricts, sudden, tight. "Why do I have to keep doing this? I'm fine – I'm over it. I want to get back to work."

"Oh, sure – you're so over it, and that's why you're here drinking."

Two glasses appear on the table, the server's hands fast and neat and eager to get away from the tone and the looks of these two customers. Art stops the man's escape by waving some cash at him.

"We'll be settling up now. This is our last."

"Alright," the voice attached to the hands says, "I'll bring you your change."

Neither Marshal even glances at the face, too busy staring each other down, locked in their war of intentions.

"I'm done with the hospital, Art. I'm done."

"Then, Tim, I'm sorry to tell you but you're done with the Marshals Service too."

The expression from Tim is as honest an emotion as Art's seen from him – it's desperate, pleading – but Art has others to think about. He has to look at the big picture, he has to be firm.

"There's no going back now, do you understand? It's forward or sideways. And I don't think you want sideways, 'cause the way I see that path ending is you working some shitty job to pay for your drinking and then eventually that gets in the way of that too, and then what?" Art lets it sink in, watches Tim sink a little in his chair. "Deal with this, Tim, once and for all, and then come back to work. You're valuable to me – you're more than a warm body filling a seat in the bullpen, more than the rifle with your name on it. What is it you military boys say? You're more than a pair of boots on the ground. I want you back at your desk. How can I help?"

"Tell them I'm okay. Tell them I can…"

"No. I not gonna lie for you. You're not okay."

"I can't do this."

"Yes, you can. Jesus Christ, Tim, you've done shit way harder than this."

"No, I haven't."

Art drops his head, stares at the bourbon, slides Tim's glass a little closer to him and picks up his own. "Okay, you're probably right. But are you really saying you haven't got the guts to do this thing? I think you do – I know you do – so get on it. You're a little smart-mouthed, tough-ass, piece-of-shit, and the best goddamned marksmen I've ever had the pleasure of working with. I know you can do this, so do it, dammit. I'll make sure there's a promotion at the end of it."

"I don't care about a promotion. I just want my job back, Art. I just want my life back."

"Well, it's waiting for you, but you're not going to get it this way. Now, drink up and let me take you back to the hospital. That doctor of yours is in a panic. He confessed that it's the third time you've snuck out on him. Here's to putting one over on the guy who's trying to help you. Whoopee. That's really clever." Art holds up his glass and waits for Tim to pick up his.

The sarcasm is a little easier to swallow with a bourbon chaser and Tim lifts the glass to his lips but then he pauses.

"What?" Art hesitates too.

"Tell me to buck up."

"What?"

"You wanna help? Tell me to buck up."

"Alright, asshole – buck up."

They each down their ounce and half in one go and grimace together then Art stands up, sorts through the change to leave a tip, takes Tim by the arm and pulls him like a dead weight out of his chair and walks him to his car. There's not a word spoken until they pull up to the hospital. Alex is waiting by the entrance – he looks cold even in a jacket, shuffling back and forth.

"He wants a cigarette," says Tim dully. "You can tell."

Art peers out the window. "Reminds me a bit of you waiting on happy hour."

"I don't drink all the time."

"Enough of the time."

Tim can't look at Art now – he's pulled the sleeve of his hoodie out from the jacket cuff and is fidgeting with the loose thread. In the car, there's only the sound of a few long breaths, a building of courage. Art lets it hang a bit but eventually he has to push.

"The only way forward is to get out of this car."

Tim glances quickly over, brief eye contact, then shoulders open the door and gets out, shuts it behind him without another word, head down, and walks over to Alex.

* * *

It's freezing and Alex has been waiting outside the main entrance of the hospital for almost half an hour when the car finally shows up. He stuffs his icy hands in his pockets. They feel empty without a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, the skin on the inside of his middle and forefinger itching. He hates waiting without a smoke for company. He watches as Tim gets out and walks over, dragging his feet, a little slouched. There's a sudden stab of conflicting emotions, just below Alex's ribcage, crushing into each other in a seething mess of frustration. Anger, relief, sadness, fear.

Tim isn't looking at him.

Alex keeps his hands tucked into his pockets and nods toward the entrance when Tim finally does look up, and they head inside, up the stairs. There's a part of him that just wants to take Tim back to the ward, to his room with the familiarity of the scene as a crutch, and then leave this place and go home and get a good night's sleep and come back to it rested. It'd be easier in the short term – hoping to find a new thread to pull tomorrow, hoping Tim won't run again. He keeps to the path he decided on earlier though, turns right instead of left, to the hall with the offices.

"You're going the wrong way, Sigmund." Tim tests the tension first.

"No, we're going to my office."

"Ah, c'mon, man. It's a little late for a session now. I'm fucking bagged."

Alex doesn't reply. He continues down the hall, stops at his office, unlocks the door and steps to his desk. He doesn't turn the ceiling light on, turns the switch on a small work lamp instead.

"You're mad. I get it," Tim says, leaning against the door frame and watching.

Alex gathers up some documents and staples them together. He filled out the paperwork earlier but it's not signed yet. He holds it up.

"Your release form."

Tim stares, a bit of lightness in his voice when he reaches for the papers. "Just like that? You're shitting me, right?"

Alex doesn't relinquish them yet. "This will get you out of the hospital and back to your apartment, but it won't get you back to work." Alex clears his throat, tries to keep his tone level. "It's obvious that I can't keep you here and I, uh…I'm not going to try."

"What d'you mean it won't get me back to work?"

"I'm not signing off that you're okay, Tim. I _can't_. I can sign you out though. It's what you want, right?"

It's a punch. It's supposed to be.

"That's bullshit." There's bewilderment in the word.

"Bullshit? Can you honestly tell me that you're all right to go back to work? You're…" Alex stops. "You're not going to get past this, not with your attitude."

"I'm fucking here now, aren't I? I didn't have to come back. I'm not in cuffs or anything."

"Yeah, but why are you back? Because of your boss?"

"Fuck you, Alex. You're supposed to be helping me. What the fuck am I supposed to do if I go home now?"

"I don't know. That's your call, Tim."

"None of this has ever been my call. Do you get that? Or do you even give a shit?"

"Yes, I give a shit!" Alex is yelling before he can rein himself in. Not caring is the least of his goddamn problems, he thinks, and fuck if Tim hasn't managed to find that weakness and exploit it. Alex knows he should have seen it coming; he should've been prepared and distanced. He snaps his mouth shut, takes a deep breath and holds it, and when he speaks again his voice is steady. "It's my job to help you – not chase you around bars. It's my job to _help_ you," he repeats. "I can't do anything but _help_. So I'm helping you get out, because that's all I can do. Clearly you don't want to be here, and if you don't, then at this point, there's just no point to any of it." He grabs a pen, signs, stuffs the papers in Tim's hand.

There's a noise outside the room, beyond the door. Tim turns, startled, sees a nurse coming up the corridor.

Alex slips past, careful to avoid touching Tim, memories of a bar and a bloodied nose making him cautious at this moment. "The nurse will help you get your things and see you out." He doesn't hesitate, walks down the hall and out.

* * *

 


	30. Chapter 30

* * *

"Hey, what time is it?" Tim asks and hands the driver some cash.

"Eleven-thirty."

"Thanks."

Standing on the curb outside his apartment building, he watches the cab pull away, looks up and down the street and tries to work out what day it is. He figures it's Tuesday which explains the hush, still too early in the week to be thinking about a late night, everyone home at this hour getting sleep for Wednesday. Thursday would have seen more traffic; Friday or Saturday, definitely busier. He shakes the bag he's carrying, loaded with his clothes and wallet presumably, his phone, hopefully his keys, and it jangles, a good sign. It's still raining lightly so he ducks into the lee of the doorway to dig through the bag, hand mining the bits and pieces of his life held on pause. He finds his keys, sorts out the one for the front door and heads to the elevator. It was his habit before to take the stairs to his place on the sixth floor, run his legs out after a day sitting at his desk or in a car, but he doesn't have much energy tonight.

His apartment is the same as he left it when he came through with Bridget – his laceless runners now dry by the door, the bourbon and two glasses still on the counter. He tosses his belongings on the couch, chooses the glass closest and pours himself some freedom. It tastes alright but he was hoping for something more. He's home; he's done. Where's the celebration? He doesn't have to think about it anymore. He can stop.

But he can't stop.

The couch beckons and he gives in to it, topples the bag to the floor and flops down, stretches out and stares at the ceiling. He wants it to look different but it doesn't; he wants to feel different, but he doesn't. There's a weight that won't go away. He thinks about a school play, Jacob Marley and the chains of his deeds in life dragging behind him like a horrible tale, haunting the ghost. He wonders if Jacob Marley ever had to tell that story out loud.

The buzzer yanks him out of a crumbling building in Afghanistan, off his knees in the rubble, the scream dying before it can build and becoming a gulp for air. It's a shock waking from that and he sits up confused, eyes fixed on the blank TV screen. There isn't a TV in his room. Wait – wrong room. The buzzer sounds again and it adjusts his head and he remembers. He stands up to see who's come to bother him.

"What?" He sounds surly, feels surly.

"It's me, Rachel. Can I come up?"

"Fuck." He mouths it, then says, "Yeah, sure," and buzzes her in.

"Strike three." It's all she says, an economy of words but he gets it. She walks into his apartment with her hands full, dumps some clean clothes on his coffee table and some food on his counter.

"How'd you know I was home?"

"A bird told me."

Tim thinks about that – it's not a hard puzzle to put together. He tries to picture Art as a bird. "What kind of bird is Art?"

"Bird of prey, definitely."

"Bald eagle."

"I don't feel like jokes," she says, waves a finger at the food. "Get yourself something to eat then we're going to talk, you and me."

Tim feels like a chicken, and not just for the obvious reasons. He's eating scraps and he can't seem to get off the ground. The scraps look good, smell delicious heating up. He sits at the table with her. "Thanks for dinner."

"What're you going to do now, Tim?"

"What d'you mean?"

"The doctor didn't sign off. You'll be offered disability – I don't know how much that means. You haven't been with the Marshals Service that long."

Tim sets his fork down; he was just pushing the food around anyway. "How do you know that?"

"Because Art told me. I know he shouldn't have but I suspect he was hoping I'd be here doing exactly what I'm doing. Tim, you have to go back."

"I can't now."

"Yes, you can. You can sign yourself back in. It'll mean more too, if you do it that way. Art and your doctor talked about it. He says he can't in good conscience say you're fit to go back to work yet. Without his signature, you're done."

"That's bullshit." He's said it before. There's not much conviction to it this time either.

"Is it?"

"Can't I just have one night in my own bed?" He doesn't even fight it; it's an ache in his knees and a hole in his stomach. He pushes away the food, not hungry anymore.

"You'll never finish this if you stay tonight. You won't want to go tomorrow morning, I promise you." Rachel reaches over and grabs his chin affectionately. "Eat up and I'll take you back. You deserve the chance. Do it for yourself, not for Art, not for me, not for anyone else."

"I hate you."

"That's because I'm always right. Makes you wish you were a girl, doesn't it?"

It's the dead hours when she pulls up at the hospital. The disappointment Tim feels that Alex isn't out front waiting surprises him, though the fact that he's not there doesn't.

Rachel reaches over. "You want me to come in with you?"

He shakes his head. "Thanks, but I'm fine. I'll just…" He doesn't finish, grabs his bag, opens the door and gets out, shuts it quietly and walks into reception.

The man on the desk is confused. "I'm sorry, why are you here?"

"I've got this, Michael." It's Martha who saves him explaining it all. "He's with Dr. Sullivan. I'll take him upstairs and sort out the records from there."

She doesn't say another word until they're alone in the elevator. "I'm glad you're back."

"I'm not. No offense."

"None taken. Three times, huh? I think that's a new record."

"I don't do things unless I'm gonna do them well."

"Let's see you put your money where your mouth is." She looks over at him, smiles. "Jesse will be happy to see you."

"Is he still working nights?"

"He and I are bears for punishment."

If Jesse is happy, he hides it well. "Just what the fuck are you playing at, man?"

Martha looks like she wants to scold the junior nurse for language, she also looks like she's just bit her tongue. "Jesse… I'm going to go chase down the discharge papers, rip them up. You're good?"

"Yes, ma'am." He's still glaring at Tim.

"Tim?" Now she looks ready to slap the two of them.

Tim keeps his eyes on Jesse when he answers her. "If I hurt him defending myself, that's okay, right?"

"Good night, gentlemen." Martha marches to the doors and out.

"I was going to cross a professional line after my shift, head to your place and beat the stupid out of you."

"Rachel got to me first. No fists. She's ninja."

Jesse's expression softens. "She's a goddess."

"You're pathetic."

"I'm in love."

"You're in lust. And let's face it, you couldn't handle a girl with a sidearm, and she knows how to use it."

"I'd like to try." Jesse grins. "I got some coffee on. Come sit with me, keep me awake."

They take their usual chairs by the window looking out at black, street lights, the odd head light, natter about the military, Afghanistan, women, jobs.

"So why are you back, brother? Seriously, you'd better have a good reason."

"I need my job."

"It's not a woman?"

Tim shakes his head, a negative. "I'm not very good at that." He glances over at Jesse then slouches a bit. "There've been a few but nothing sticks. They all complain…"

"…that you're not there, and I don't mean physically."

"Yeah, exactly. The last girl I dated, she called me an asshole 'cause I didn't cry when her dog died. Wasn't my dog."

"A little Tabasco would've done the trick. I thought you Army muscleheads were resourceful?"

"Didn't have the energy to keep up the pretense."

"Yeah, I hear you." Jesse gets up and pours some more coffee. "I needed this job, that's for sure. It's been good for me. I had a girl when I went over – it wasn't the same when I got back. She couldn't handle my 'moods', she'd call them. She got out fast. Don't do much dating right now. Hard with the hours I keep anyway."

The horizon was starting to sharpen, black fading.

"I'd better do my rounds. It's time." Jesse stands up and stretches. "You okay? Your room's still there. Clean sheets."

"I'm good, thanks."

"Alright, see you around. Glad you're back."

Tim looks up, tired, sad. "I'll put in a good word for you with Rachel."

That gets a grin. "Alright. _Damn._ Mmm-mmm."

* * *

The numbness is gone. A taste of freedom and a kick in the head – that'll do it. When the fuck does this end?

Tim is starting another book, but he's thinking about the rain tapping on his window. It means no skateboard session; it means Alex's office today. He doesn't have good feels about Alex's office and he wonders if that's normal and every patient in here ends up hating their psychiatrist's office. How could you not hate it when it's painted thick with memories that you'd rather have left in the can? Vulnerable and powerless, that's how he is in there, and in the confined space the feelings echo and amplify. Vulnerable and powerless, those aren't feelings he's used to or comfortable with and his eyes are drawn to the door when he's in that room, over and over. Maybe he should explain this to Alex. He begins to feel agitated, not anxiety anymore, distaste, and strong.

It's getting close to ten o'clock. Tim's had his early coffee and breakfast with Jesse who told him that because of him they've done an overhaul of their security procedures. Three unauthorized patient exits, same fucking patient – Jesse's words – is unprecedented at the hospital. When Tim smiled, looking pleased with himself, Jesse shook his head and said, "Don't be too fucking smug, asshole. I promise, it won't happen again."

Tim takes that as a challenge because the numbness is gone. He tries to ignore the rain and what it means to his morning and thinks instead about escape number four and if he can include a skateboard in the getaway. It's a purpose for him – testing the perimeter defenses and security procedures.

Jesse knocks and peeks around the door. When he sees Tim staring unfocused at the far wall he grunts.

"You're already planning, aren't you? Shit. I'm gonna warn all the staff, downstairs too. There's no fucking way it's happening a fourth time."

Tim grins and thinks about the roof. He'll wait for a nicer day, though.

"Let's go, Steve McQueen, Doc's waiting." Jesse waves him up.

The book gets tossed on the bed and Tim follows and asks Jesse about the tightened security and Jesse says, "Uh-uh, bro. No way I'm telling you shit."

"I thought we were on the same side?"

"Fuck you. Not in this we're not. This is a fucking game to you. You're the enemy in this one, brother. Don't you forget it."

They're chuckling easily when they get to Alex's office and Jesse continues laughing as he strolls away off down the hall. Alex is looking out his window.

"I didn't think Kentucky was supposed to be this wet."

"It's not. I'm the mother-fucking prick god of weather. This is the all-powerful manifestation of my feelings at this time."

"I guess we're staying in."

Tim stays in the doorway. "I hate your office, Sigmund." It's flat. "I hate it." Still flat. Alex turns around. "I can't think of anything I hate more than your office. I don't think it's too strong a word, either. Hate – H-A-T-E. Hate, hate, hate." Any flatter and it would start to curve the other way. "Yep. That's about it."

Alex studies Tim's features, flat. A soft twitch of a frown flits across Alex's face and then he glances around the office, eyes lingering on the floor for a second before he looks back up and back at Tim.

"I don't mind it so much."

Tim shrugs. "It's your space. You're the mother-fucking prick god of this space."

It's true and it says something about Tim's awareness that he sees it that way.

Alex grins. "You're gonna be alright, Tim. I know that it, uh…it sucks to be here right now, but you're gonna be alright."

"I'm never gonna be alright in here. That's not possible." Tim huffs, doesn't move. "It's a goddamn fucking beautiful day. Let's go out." He almost yells when Alex turns to look at the rain on the window. "Goddamn right, Sigmund. I said it's a _beautiful fucking day."_ Tim shows the room his back and walks down the hall.

* * *

 


	31. Chapter 31

* * *

It's ten o'clock – no Jesse, no Tim. The sun has just cleared the trees across the road outside Alex's window, and he squints, raises a hand to block it. He becomes aware of two things at once – a single set of soft-soled footsteps is hurrying toward his office, and his skateboard isn't in its usual spot against the wall in the corner. In fact, it's nowhere in the room.

"Shit."

There's surprise, amusement, and a touch of disappointment in the tone, and, if he's honest with himself, some admiration. How the hell did Tim get out when they've tightened down security so much?

"Doc?"

"'Morning, Jesse." Alex stands up like an old man, a groan and a stretch and fatigue. "He's got my skateboard."

Jesse is halted mid-purpose, mid-stride. "Why the hell would he take your skateboard? What the hell does that mean?"

There's a thought. Does it mean something? Maybe a message? Alex huffs out a laugh, feeling younger again – the meaning seems clear when it smacks him. "It means he's playing with us, not running. Did you sound the alarm yet?"

"No, I was hoping he was here with you – maybe another of his sun-god talks." Jesse flaps his arms, sounds a little angry.

"I'll look for him. Don't mention it yet, please?"

"It's your call, Doc. You let me know if you find him...and where."

"Sure." Alex picks up his keys and his jacket. "Well, he's not boring."

"Is anyone here ever boring?"

Alex thinks about Sophia. She was boring, boring and terrifying, if that combination were even possible. "I guess not."

"Damn straight – _not."_ Jesse shakes his head, clear in his message that he thinks Alex should be in a room with a bed too, behind locked doors. "You want help looking?"

"No."

"Okay."

The tone is bordering disrespectful, but affectionate. Alex doesn't mind – in fact he likes it – gives the nurse's shoulder a pat on the way past.

"And where exactly are you gonna look?" The tone is still there. "The bars aren't open this early."

"Service entrance first."

"Good luck. Shit, how did he get out this time?" Jesse's mouth is wrestling with itself – frown or smile, either could win. "Kick him in the nuts for me when you see him."

"Uh…no, I'll let you do that," says Alex, reliving an off-balance, left-handed fist to the face.

They walk together down the hall, separate at the elevator.

The loading area is quiet. Alex does a circuit of the lot and has a quick smoke while he's out there, crushes the half cigarette under his shoe and does a last turn on the spot, eyes moving to any possible hiding places. A voice interrupts his mounting anger, drifting and distant, from the roof.

"Is it only half a cheat if you only smoke half a cigarette?"

Alex looks up.

Listing precariously out from the roof of the building, grinning, Tim throws something off into the air toward Alex. Alex is unsure how to react to the Super Mario figurine floating down. The make-shift parachute works pretty well.

Tim leans a little farther out to watch its path. "You left it on your shelf. Your office is a mess, Sigmund."

Alex's knees ache in sympathy with the height. "Tim, fuck off! And take a step or two back, would you? I'm coming up."

The grin expands to include laughter. "Don't bother. I'll come down to you. This gravel roof is shit for boarding." He waves and disappears before Alex can say more.

"Fuck." Alex repeats the word around another cigarette while he flicks a flame from his lighter and then draws greedily. "Fucker." He strolls over and bends down to retrieve Mario. There's a curb close by in the sunlight and he settles onto it and waits.

The skateboard grinds on the pavement coming around the corner of the building, stops. Alex listens to the familiar sounds of a pop-shuvit or some other maneuver, then the board being flipped up, and Tim appears beside him, drops down to join him on the curb and starts talking as his butt hits concrete.

"I'm realizing that my biggest problem is that I'm completely fucking messed up about it all. I can't decide how to feel. I'm fucking proud of my shooting, proud of stopping that asshole from getting that round off, but…but knowing that I was the instrument that fucking blew up somebody's world, somebody that didn't fucking deserve it…shit, I can't be proud of that. So, what the fuck? How do you settle that score? It's fucked."

Whatever anger Alex felt this morning is trampled until it's unrecognizable under the heavy tread of Tim's opening speech. Alex turns and appraises, thinks through every emotion that Tim presents, every choice of phrase or word, stops at 'instrument'. It's a break-through. It's a way forward. It's a recognition of reality, putting events into a proper narrative, a more honest one, one that is rational and that sticks, and yes, that sucks too, but it's a truer account of events than anything he's heard from Tim so far.

"I think you've pretty much sorted it out for yourself." Alex stands and kicks the board out of Tim's grip, skates the delivery dock area and thinks, and gives Tim a chance to think, and stops abruptly where Tim is still sitting. "Why did you use the word 'instrument'?"

"I dunno."

"It's an interesting choice, very rational. It removes the responsibility."

"I didn't mean to do that."

"Why not? A responsibility suggests choice. At that moment, at that place, what choice did you have, really? What choice did you have when you were trained and ordered to protect your buddies? Could you be who you are and not protect them?" Alex takes another drag on his cigarette, no longer aware of the transgression because he's focused on a word. "Tell me again what happened that day. Start with the helicopter ride. Tell me who was there and everything that happened. Tell me knowing that you had no choice."

Alex sits back on the curb when Tim starts. It's a hard hour – the story has never been told coherently through to the end, not yet – but this time it continues, and Alex is chain-smoking his way through it. This time, he hears about the room and the bodies and the reaction that doesn't happen, not then, not till later, not till a few weeks ago.

"It's so fucked." Tim finishes and looks at the pile of cigarette butts at Alex's feet. "I don't even feel like screaming. I don't feel like crying either. I'm just fucking pissed off."

"What do you feel like doing?"

"Getting back to work."

"That's avoidance."

That's harsh. Alex waits.

"Well, what the fuck can I do? I can't…fucking…change…anything!"

"You can forgive yourself. That's the only thing you ever had control over – your feelings, how you want to deal with it."

Tim takes control of the skateboard again, working a groove in the pavement, back and forth. Finally he looks at Alex and says, "Have you tried selling a woman that bullshit?"

* * *

"Hey, Dad."

Alex pulls off his tie and tosses it into the backseat of his car. He has a cigarette lit before he's stepped out onto the asphalt, leans back against the hood, phone pressed between his ear and shoulder. He's in the hospital parking lot, his usual spot – nowhere else to be. The air smells like tar with the wind from the west. It's Sunday and the afternoon sunlight is cold, brief, diffuse through the clouds that have it surrounded. It surrenders quickly and the day falls into gloom.

"I can hear you smoking, son. I thought you said you quit." It's sluggish, slurred, like he just woke up.

"I did. I have, I just…"

"Rough day?"

Alex thinks about rot, yellowing rose pedals covering dirt covering bone. He unbuttons his shirt collar, tugs it loose. "Yeah, rough day, I guess. You doing alright?"

"Ah, you know how it is. I'm painting again, or I plan to anyway. I bought some canvases, paint, a new brush."

"Dad, I, uh…I'm sorry." His voice breaks and he coughs to cover it up, stomps out the cigarette against the pavement and lights another one. His eyes get stuck on the specks of dried graveyard mud on his black leather shoes.

"For what?"

It was quiet, Sophia's funeral, the church hollowed by monotone hymns and monotone speeches. Alex had sat in a back pew with his head down low, watching the dark rows of her mourning family, apart, a spectator. He had no right to grieve her, not really, at least not like they did. He wanted to though, sitting there, his eyes too dry.

"For leaving. I left you. I'm sorry I left you like that after… I shouldn't have just…run like that. I'm sorry."

He can hear the click and flare of a lighter, a sharp breath in, shaky breath out.

"You know, I remember when you were little, when shit got really bad for me, you'd sit in that ratty old armchair by the window in my room – the green one, remember, with the broken armrest? And you'd read the paper to me, or stuff out of the tattoo magazines, and sometimes you'd just sit there quiet and do homework. You did that every day, or a little while every day. _Every single day,_ Alex, for me. I remember that. I remember that."

Alex hadn't thought about it in years, those times, but he remembers now, the squeaky chair, the smell, the dimmed light.

"Dad…"

"I understand, kid. I ever tell you how proud I was when you got that scholarship? I always knew you'd do well. You were always so clever, you wanted so much, and I knew you'd be alright. You were always gonna be alright."

Alex looks out across the parking lot, emptier on weekends. He doesn't know why he came here today. "We never talked about Emma. We really should talk about her someday."

The silence stretches after he says it, wears them both thin, and when his dad finally answers it's hushed and short like he's been holding his breath. "Yeah."

"I'll come visit soon, okay?"

"I'd like that."

Alex hangs up, crushes the cigarette under his muddy shoe. He decides to stop by his office since he's here, bring some files home, something to pass the time until tomorrow.

His legs take him to the restricted ward first, past Sophia's old room. He stops and looks in, a new patient sleeping. This is the only place he knew her, the only context he can fit her into, anything else is only in his mind, a fabrication. He didn't know the rosy-cheeked, sunlit and happy girl in the framed pictures by her casket. And she's not that girl anymore, and she's not in this room anymore, and he isn't going to keep her tethered here like some ghost – she should be free of this place. He turns and leaves, his footsteps echoing in the halls as he walks away. He doesn't make it to his office. He needs somebody to talk to.

Tim's sitting on his bed, reading. Alex pauses in the doorway, hand up to knock. It's Sunday. He really shouldn't be here.

"I saw you pull in," says Tim without looking up.

Alex looks out the window to the parking lot, his reflection in the glass silvered by the gray clouds.

"That cigarette taste good? Did you at least bring me some bourbon or a beer to go with that smoke?"

The caustic is a cold slap and welcome, but Alex isn't feeling together enough to come up with a good response, something with a lesson in it, or at the very least some sarcasm. He swallows and chokes on his own phlegm, coughs – it's a comedy routine.

Tim looks up finally and scans him top to bottom, quick, efficient, law enforcement, looking for evidence. "You don't strike me as the church-going type, Sigmund. Why the dark suit on a Sunday? You got your eye on some Sunday school girl, preacher's wife?" He sets his book down, careful to keep his place, crosses his arms. "Or is this an elaborate ruse to try and catch me sneaking out again, learn my secrets?"

Again nothing to toss back. Alex can't think clearly enough through his undefinable feelings to say anything in response. His desperation must be showing because Tim stops taunting, looks a little harder.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. No. Um, I was at a, uh…funeral." Alex scratches the back of his head, coughs again and looks down at his shoes, even more conscious of the mud now that he's indoors. "You're right, I'm not the church-going type…or the Sunday school girl type. Actually, that sounds kinda creepy. And, preacher's wife?" He goes for a grin but it fades quickly. He's still standing in the doorway.

Tim shuffles a little, stands up, stretches. "Whose funeral?"

"Patient."

"The one that committed suicide?"

Alex nods.

Tim puts on the Alabama accent, a little humor in the tone. "You good for some of your own medicine, boy?" He kicks a chair over and points at it, plunks himself back on the bed. "What's eating you, Sigmund? Spill."

Alex takes the offer of a seat, realizing that this is the somebody he needs to talk to. "I didn't go to my sister's funeral." He's supposed to say that he's sad for Sophia but that's not what comes out. "I'd done everything else, everything I was supposed to – I made all the calls, told everyone, friends, aunts, cousins. It pissed me off that no one seemed surprised." He's never said any of this aloud before. It sounds different in words outside his head, more like rationalizing, less rational. He pauses, slips his glasses off to rub his face. "I picked out the casket and flowers, made all the arrangements. I got dressed for it and I found a good parking spot. I was early so I figured I'd, uh…I'd just have one drink, you know, just to pass the time, smooth things out. I remember looking at my watch later that night and it had all gone by without me. Then – and I hate this the most – I felt worse about skipping the funeral than I did about Emma…about her being gone. God, I felt like a piece of shit."

"Apparently you still do."

"Apparently."

"I hate funerals," Tim says, no acrimony in it, little of any emotion in it. "You're supposed to feel sad, right? I never do, so I just end up feeling weird about it all. Maybe I did once, I dunno. I wasn't sad at my dad's and that's the only one I can remember going to before… Hardly a baseline for my emotional state. There were plenty enough after though.

"This one time we were sitting around the barracks, dress uniforms, back from a funeral, drinking. A guy died, an officer, requalifying jump, something fucked like that. The parachute didn't deploy properly. Whatever. I didn't know him well. Anyway, this new kid in our platoon, hadn't been out of the States yet, never seen combat, he says he feels like shit 'cause he's just happy he didn't get that parachute. He looks about ready to start bawling." Tim shakes his head. "You gotta understand – it's not that it's not tragic, it's just the way things are when you're in. People get hurt. We'd just gotten back and, you know, everyone's wound up, over tired, then this funeral. Crawford lost it, started pushing this kid, yelling at him that none of us wanted to hear his fucking useless thoughts about anything, go tell it to the fucking chaplain, hit him once good before we stepped in and stopped it." Tim grimaces, wets his lips. "But we just didn't see the point in thinking about it too much, you know? We'd stopped thinking about it, and now this stupid kid shoves it in our face and… I wanted to fucking punch that private too. We only pulled the guy off so we wouldn't catch shit for it."

Tim waves a hand, trying to clear something away. "I don't remember feeling sad at my mother's funeral. I'm sad when I think about her now. So what difference does it make to her when I feel sad and when I don't?"

Alex understands. He does, and it's good to listen to it from somebody else, his thoughts from somebody else. "It's complicated," he says to Tim, or maybe to himself. "Grief is complicated and personal. I just think I should've done right by her."

"Right by her or right according to the other people at the funeral?" Tim is staring right at Alex, right into him. "The dead are dead, Sigmund. They don't care. It's the fucking living that care about all that ceremony bullshit. They're the ones left with all the fucking grief to sort out and deal with."

* * *

 


	32. Chapter 32

* * *

"Shit, fuck, goddamn it."

Jesse has intercepted Alex in the parking lot, heading for his car and home. The nurse is vibrating, he's so angry, hopping from one foot to the other, arms flapping. Alex waits patiently for an explanation for the outburst but he's already got a pretty good idea what it's about, or more to the point, whom – Tim.

"He's gone again. That fucking… Shit, excuse my language. It's not very professional."

"Don't worry about it. Swear away. What's wrong?"

"I tried to call you. Dr. Van said you hadn't left yet. Tim's gone. How many fucking times is this now?" Now that Jesse has permission, he's letting the language fly. "How the fuck is he getting out? I wanna fucking plug that hole."

Alex puts a hand on Jesse's shoulder, calming. "Don't let him get to you, Jesse. Relax. This doesn't reflect on you." A grin appears on Alex's face while he tries to smooth Jesse's feelings. He can't help it. This routine is starting to be funny to him, lightness, and progress of a sort. If he squints, turns it on its end, it's progress. He's seeing it as Tim expressing himself, trying to get his life back, and that's positive. It's something to grin about. Unfortunately, the grin gets Jesse more riled.

"Fucking little…"

"Hey, you know, I think you're reverting to pre-nurse Jesse, Air Force Jesse. It might not be a bad thing. Nurse Jesse tries too hard. I think you hold a lot in."

_"I'm_ not your fucking patient, Doc. That insolent, cheeky, fucking, Army musclehead asshole is. Fucking Army. They're a fucking bunch of fucking trolls."

Alex pulls his hand back but his grin stays. "I'll recommend a therapist for you if you want, see if it can't help with your Army issues."

Jesse glares.

"Not that I'm suggesting you need it." Alex adds the last part quickly, almost laughing now. "Just, uh…" Looking up at the hospital roof, thinking fondly of skate-boarding, he says, "You know, maybe you should enjoy the shove back in time. You seem a bit looser lately and that's probably good for you. Good for me too. We, uh... We try too hard to be in control, but, Jesse, news flash, we're not."

"You're starting to sound like Dr. Van. If you start dressing like her, I'll fucking smack you. That woman…"

The head shake says loads, and the change in topic is calming Jesse down.

"I think I know where Tim is," says Alex. "I think he's still in the building…or on it, anyway. I'll deal with him. Come on."

He pulls the nurse in the direction of the hospital and leaves him, still fuming, on his ward, then drops his bag in his office and pushes through the door at the end of the hall to the stairwell and walks up. The wind is stronger on the exposed roof and Alex is glad for the jacket he's still wearing. Tim is sitting in the lee of an air conditioning unit, huddled in his hoodie, head up, watching the clouds pass west through the graying sky, leaving behind a wash of darkness. Tim shuffles over a bit when he hears Alex's feet crunching on the gravel.

Alex sits down next to him and studies the clouds too. "I've been thinking about what you said about telling a woman that feelings are the only thing they have control of. Yeah, I'd probably get shot if I suggested that. It's not quite that simple is it?"

Tim doesn't respond.

"Okay, so you're right. You don't really have control over your feelings. You can suppress them for a while, but ultimately none of us can control them."

"Unless you're a Vulcan," says Tim, a wry head tilt.

"…unless you're a Vulcan. But…"

Tim grumbles, mumbles. "Fucking 'buts.'"

_"But…_ you can accept them, accept who you are. I guess what we're doing here is discovering who you are so you can prepare yourself to live with that person…moving forward."

"Have you accepted who you are yet?"

"You know, I had to go through some therapy sessions as part of my training. It's about the experience of being on the other side of it, supposedly. It's not a bad idea, I guess." Alex takes a breath and plows on, back into forbidden personal territory. "My therapist, Dr. Peterson, uh…Richard, I liked him – we got along. He did this serious, quiet thing, part of his shtick. He could wait for a whole session, I swear, and not say one word, and I'd spill my guts rather than squirm through the awkward silence. So I told him all about my childhood – this was before Emma, um…but, yeah I talked about her too. She was in rehab at the time, methadone bullshit. I talked about struggling to pay the bills, my crap jobs, I even talked about my sex life. He was all like, _how did the experience of your first sexual encounter influence your relationships_? Jesus. Fucking Freud in jeans, but without the, uh…beard."

He glances over at Tim, sitting still and quiet, turned away from the streetlight so his face is lost in the dark of dusk moving to night. Alex tries to picture him with a rifle, and suddenly he needs to see it.

"I think we should go to a range – you should take me shooting."

Tim turns so his face is in view. He smiles, "Is this a fucking field trip or a date after I get out? Shit, whatever, I'm in, especially if it gets a rifle back in my hands." He holds them up – no tremors. "Splint is off, so I'm good."

"Okay. I'll see what I can do to convince who I have to convince."

"Who do you have to convince?"

"I'm not sure."

"You need more therapy for that indecision problem you got?"

"No. I had enough therapy with Richard, thanks."

Tim nods and turns away again. "He make you talk about your dad?"

Alex gets a cigarette from his pocket, doesn't light it. "That's a given. My dad's permanently in a mental health center. That's, uh…ripe territory, needless to say."

Another nod. "So's war."

"And mothers. I told him that my mom died. I lied to him, basically. She's not dead. I don't have a clue where she is." Alex has given up trying to stick to the rules with Tim. Giving out bits of himself is working, always seems to draw Tim out, and Alex is discovering it's better therapy for him than he ever had with Richard. "I told him it happened when I was little, an anaphylactic reaction to an antibiotic or something. Man, the contortions you bend yourself into to avoid talking about…thinking about even… I avoided dealing with her for a long time."

Alex draws his knees up to his chest to shield himself a bit more from the cold, wishes he hadn't left his wool hat in his office. He lights the cigarette and is almost halfway through it before he picks the story back up.

"Dad liked to shave with a straight razor – old school, you know? I guess he thought it was cool, but that fucking thing scared the hell out of me. I started hiding it. I'd move it every day so he wouldn't… He didn't have the energy to get a new one so he just quit shaving. Sometimes I'd wake up in the middle of the night and go check that he hadn't found it. Stupid thing to fixate on – it's not like he didn't have enough sedatives to kill a horse – but uh, that's not the point. It's being scared all the time, terrified, and frustrated and pissed off, and pushing and pushing, and it's always a struggle and there's no end to it and you're so tired. She, uh…my mom, she couldn't handle it, so she bailed. I was eleven. I don't really remember much of the circumstances and Dad didn't like to talk about it, but, yeah…

"I really thought she was coming back, but she didn't. I was angry. Then I stopped thinking about her. I didn't care, didn't care why I lied either, why I came up with that ridiculous anaphylaxis story. But then when Emma died, I, uh…I ran away from Dad too. I bailed, just like my mom. That's when I figured out why I lied to Richard and why I worked so hard to avoid the truth – not because I was angry or felt abandoned or betrayed or anything like that, it was because I knew _exactly_ how she felt. I felt the same way. I was just like her and I hated it. I knew I had it in me – it was just such a relief to not deal with it…"

"Don't you think we all avoid shit if we can?" Tim picks at the gravel on the roof and whips a piece of it against another air-conditioning unit a few yards away. "What's your point?"

"My point is, if you'd let me get to it, is that all the anger at her, and all the energy and effort spent on avoidance, it was all for shit. She's not in control of my choices. I am. So I've made my peace with her, I think, and, wherever she's at, I hope she's made hers with herself too."

The cigarette has burned down. Alex drops it and grinds it under his heel and lights up a second one.

Tim shuffles and picks up another stone and tosses it after the first, then another. Eventually he turns to Alex and raises his eyebrows and says, "Nice story, Sigmund, but tell me, have you made your peace with yourself yet? You never said that, you just said you'd made your peace with her."

"You're a fucking piece of shit, you know that?"

"I'm honing my skills to an art in here."

* * *

"To answer your question from the roof last night – no, I don't think I have made my peace with myself…yet."

That's Alex's greeting the next morning at their ten o'clock session. Tim is stalled at the door as usual when Alex speaks, and the statement surprises him and he walks on into the office and takes a seat and looks carefully at Alex, no complaining, curious. "So what're you gonna do about it?"

"I dunno. Have you made some kind of peace with your dad?"

"That's avoidance."

"I'm the doctor."

"Okay, fine. _No._ I hate him. And I'm fine with that. I'm just fucking like him, like you're like your mom."

"Are you sure?"

Tim ignores Alex's interjection, continues his thoughts, "And if I'm just like him and I hate him, then I hate myself. Does that mean if I forgive myself, by proxy, I forgive him too? That'd fucking suck. I like fucking hating him."

"Tell me about your dad, and I'll decide if you're just like him or not."

"Well, of course you're gonna say I'm not like him."

"Yep. Just like that. Problem solved."

"So why should I bother describing the asshole if it's a foregone conclusion that you're gonna say I'm not like him?"

"Uh…to amuse me? Come on, make me feel like I'm actually earning my money."

"Got a better reason?"

"That's it."

"Fine. Just to make you feel better… He was taller than me, a bit wider, his hair was darker."

"See? You're not like him at all."

"Wow, this therapy stuff is wonderful. Can I go home now?"

"No. Tell me about your dad, Tim."

"He was an asshole."

A patient sigh. "We've established that."

"Excellent. Then I'm done."

* * *

"I don't get it. Why is it that when I dream about this shit, it's always blinding fucking daylight, but just about everything that happened over there happened at night?"

Alex thinks about the question. "Dreams often work in metaphors. Maybe you've subconsciously been trying to understand what happened, trying to reconcile your reaction and feelings to the events with how you think you should have felt, how you've been raised in your life to think you should have felt. You've been trying to shed some light on it. Get it? Light?"

Tim isn't looking convinced. "Do you believe all the bullshit you spout?"

The laugh that Tim's comment evokes is involuntary, but honest. Alex can taste it almost, it's so real. If laughter has a flavor, then he suspects it's a pleasant one, and he's grateful that he's not reacting defensively – that probably tastes bitter. "Do you have a better idea?"

"Nope."

"Then I like my bullshit. I like what it says about you too."

"Yeah, but that's you projecting an idea of me onto your analysis of my dream."

That stops Alex – Tim is trying to be him, so he tries on the character of Tim. "So? What the fuck do you care? You think it's all bullshit anyway."

Now Tim laughs, and Alex can see that it tastes good to him too. He's still grinning when he says, "Maybe you're right, maybe it is metaphoric." Tim throws up his hands in defeat. "Alright, whatever. Let's just go with it."

"So, you had the dream again?"

Tim huffs. "I shouldn't have said anything."

* * *

"You know, I'm going to walk out of here with some huge big fucking ego." Tim's arms are out wide to demonstrate. "All we do is talk about me."

Alex leans back in his chair behind his desk. "Huge and big – that's redundant."

"Maybe I'm redundant."

"No, you're a first for me. And hopefully a last."

"Huge, big, _enormous_ ego now, knowing I'm a first."

A sigh from Alex. "I think I'll change my last name from Sullivan to Frankenstein. I'm creating a monster."

"I think I'll change mine to Hyde, then Jekyll, then back again."

"It would suit you."

"Fuck you."

"Nope. Dr. Frankenstein fucks himself."

"Nice ending. What about Dr. Jekyll? I never read it."

"He just gets fucked, period."

"Good metaphor for me then."

* * *

"No one's been in to see me in over a week."

"I told them to stay away."

"Why?"

"I didn't want you distracted worrying about how other people are going to think about you doing therapy."

"You might've told me. I'm starting to feel unloved. I'm gonna need more therapy."

"I love you, Tim."

Tim blinks, stands up and spreads his arms wide. "Give me a hug, man."

Alex doesn't move from behind his desk, wishes he'd bitten back the sarcasm. "You need to tell me again what happened that day."

Defeat, animated, slumps back in his chair. "Why? How many times do you need to hear it?"

"It's you that needs to hear it – as many times as it takes so it doesn't hit you over the head again at an inconvenient time."

Tim thinks fondly of his rifle and starts the narrative again.

* * *

"Were you ever injured in combat?"

"Nothing serious."

"What's 'nothing serious' by your standard?"

"A few cuts needing stitching." Tim shrugs. "Sprained my ankle once landing on a rock jumping out of a helo. Nothing some pain killers couldn't deal with."

"Lucky."

"Yeah."

Alex looks back at his notes. "Uh…"

"Was there a reason for that question?"

"No, I was just curious."

Tim throws his hands out. "Anything else you wanna ask? I've got nothing better to do."

Alex is embarrassed. "No, not really."

"Aw, come on. Everyone has questions."

"Some other guys weren't, uh…weren't so lucky."

Tim's arms drop. "No. Other guys weren't so lucky."

"Any of them you want to talk about?"

"It's okay. I don't need to talk about that. They knew what they signed up for. So did I."

"Did you really, though?"

"About that part, yeah. They made it pretty clear."

* * *

"Your dad..."

"Fuck, here we go again."

* * *

 


	33. Chapter 33

* * *

Alex drives and Tim directs, heading out of Lexington. A few miles beyond the city limits, Alex starts to get nervous about the plan, his head twitching to look at Tim. Tim's reaction to their increased distance from civilization in general, and from the hospital in particular, is exactly the opposite. The farther away from the buildings, the more miles that pass under the tires, the more relaxed he gets, sliding down in his seat, head resting against the window, eyes glazed, looking out to whatever horizon is available, past the fields and on into the forest. He comes back to the present to indicate a turn then tunes out again.

Eventually, Alex's anxiety demands air. "Are we there yet?"

Tim answers patiently, "It's not much further. Another couple of miles up this road. Do you have to pee?"

This road seems very lonely to Alex, uninhabited, isolated. "And we couldn't have just gone to a range in Lexington? There is one in the city, uh…somewhere…at least one, right?"

"If you want a decent outdoor rifle range – and believe me, outdoors is infinitely preferable to indoors – then you gotta get out of the city. Besides, I left my rifle out here last time."

"Why?"

"Because I really thought I'd be back sooner than this."

"Oh, yeah, I suppose."

Tim points to himself. "Tim, interrupted."

"I never saw that movie."

"I'm living it." There's a sigh from the passenger seat, Tim deciding to expand on his answer, an explanation in gratitude to Alex who's managed to organize a trip to the shooting range. "I got called into work on a Saturday. I was out here doing my thing. The owner knows me – he said he'd clean my rifle and lock it up for me. I thought I'd be back the next day, but… That was the weekend I ended up driving down to Memphis with Raylan, chasing somebody. And then this shit."

Tim settles back against the window and it's quiet in the car again. The silence brings back some of Alex's nervousness and he starts tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

"Fuck." Tim sits up. "What's your fucking problem? This was your idea, remember? You're not having second thoughts, are you? I'm not gonna go psycho and run stupid on some fucking shooting spree."

"I just thought we'd be, uh…" He gestures vaguely behind them.

"Trust me, it's worth the trip."

"I believe you, it's just…"

"You want me to drive?"

"No."

"I don't mind driving."

Alex decides he needs to get control of this; he needs some justification for the mileage he's putting on the car, the miles between him and help, something better than, 'trust me'. He feels vulnerable and it tweaks some guilt from him when he imagines that this is how Tim likely feels when they're in his office at the hospital. "Why is an outdoor range better?"

"You've never fired a gun before, have you?"

"Uh…no."

"A rifle is fucking loud, Sigmund. It's a little easier on the ears when you're outdoors." Tim gestures straight out the windshield, four fingers pointing forward. "And you can shoot further outdoors, especially since I'm not firing a large-caliber weapon with armor-piercing rounds and the capability to go through the walls of the itty bitty fucking ranges in Lexington. Besides, the owners get a little annoyed when you chew up their walls. I think the longest public indoor range is 100 yards. Military has some longer."

"How far can you shoot?"

"Depends. Rangers use the M110 – they switched to it from the M24 just after I became a sniper. They're both mid-range sniper systems. We'd train to hit a target out to six hundred meters first shot, and out to the weapon's effective range, which is a little over eight hundred, more depending, as consistently as possible. I was pretty consistent," he says, smiling. "Now, with a .50 cal you can shoot a lot farther than that, and they've got some pretty cool targeting software in the military – I got to train on that too, and it's great if you have the time between shots. Combat support though, which is what we Ranger snipers do, we were expected to engage a target within three seconds, usually two to four hundred meters out." He puts on a bit more Alabama, snaps out, "Rapid target acquisition," and mimes aiming and firing two or three times in succession.

Tim finishes outlining his former job, glances at Alex to see if he understood any of it. Alex is staring at him.

"Dude," says Tim calmly, "keep your eyes on the road."

Alex's head snaps forward again and he corrects the car's path. "But how far can _you_ shoot?"

"Are you not listening? I just explained – it depends on what rifle I'm using."

The confidence fills the car and spills over.

"So you're the motherfucking prick god of the rifle range."

"Some days it feels that way. Those are good days."

* * *

It's clear Tim isn't satisfied with the shot he's just made. He's prone, lying behind his rifle and looking downrange, still, his face a blank, but his lower jaw has slid a fraction to the right, and Alex knows that means Tim's annoyed. But he's calm too, and that's what Alex is looking for.

"Fuck," Tim says finally, lips barely moving. "I'm gonna have to spend some time at the range when I get out. It's been too long a break."

"It's only been, uh…not even two months."

"Too long. I'm rusty."

"That shot hit the target." Alex points to it, peers again through the binoculars. "It's in the circle thing."

"It's not a kill shot."

"How do you know?"

Tim moves finally, back onto his knees. He gives Alex a look that describes fully what a stupid question it is that he just asked.

"Uh…right. Of course you'd know."

"Thank you. Fuck. What the hell've we been talking about all this time when I should've been out here on the range keeping up my fucking shooting?"

"Well, you might not feel like the motherfucking prick god of the range today, but you are definitely still the motherfucking prick god of attitude."

The left side of Tim's mouth twitches up and he gestures to his weapon. "You still want to try it?"

"How about, uh…something smaller?"

"This is a reasonably small rifle compared to…"

"I'm thinking handgun."

"Alright, but I'm gonna subject you to the entire newb safety spiel, plus some."

"Great. That suits me just fine."

Alex takes in the scenery while Tim packs up his weapon. It's a lovely spot, a long field opening past the club house tucked away among the trees, still bare but enough greenery from the pines that Alex can get a sense of what it's like in the spring and summer and fall. It smells nice, pine and gunpowder.

"How much time do you spend out here usually?"

"As much as I can, and not nearly enough."

Alex nods.

"So why are we here, Sigmund? Is this a test or something?"

"That's how I sold it to my boss. I said I needed to be sure you weren't going to relapse with a rifle in your hands. I really didn't think you would though, but now I can sign my name to it with confidence."

"But these aren't live targets. No trigger."

"Yeah, uh…kinda hard to arrange a test like that."

"I dunno. You could take a walk downrange."

"I can't sign your 'you're okay to work' papers if I'm dead."

"I won't kill you; I'll just wing you."

"Then I definitely won't sign your papers."

"Killjoy." But Tim is smiling, relaxed. He's in his element.

Alex notices.

* * *

It's got to be ten o'clock but Jesse hasn't shown up yet. The mid-blue 2010 Ford Taurus is in its usual parking spot and Tim stares out his window at it for a few minutes then turns and walks out of his room into the hallway to see what's up. Alex is leaning against the wall just outside his door, the skateboard balanced between the tops of his runners and a hand holding it steady.

"About time you decided to wake up," he says, a smirk balanced too.

"I've been up for four hours. Where the hell's Jesse?"

"Having a coffee break. You think the world revolves around you?"

"You gonna write 'narcissistic tendencies' in your file?" Tim gestures to the folder in Alex's free hand then reaches for the skateboard.

"Not in the hall."

"Aw, shit. That's no fun." Tim drops the board on the floor and skates to the end.

"Tim! God, you're like a four-year-old!"

When Alex catches up, Tim's laughing. Alex gives him a shove and unlocks the doors. They head down the stairs and out the front and Tim drops the board again, this time directly in front of the 'No Skateboards or In-line Skates Allowed on Hospital Property' sign, rebellious, and disappears around back.

Alex takes his time following, enjoys the sunshine. It's even warmer on the other side of the hospital where the wind is blocked. Tim is reveling in it too, happily running through his collection of flat-ground tricks. Alex sits in the full sun at the back of the paved area, closes his eyes and lets his mind shut off for a bit, opens them again when he hears the wheels clacking nearby, then the board flipping. Tim is standing in front of him, squinting into the light.

"What's up, Sigmund? You alright?"

"Yeah, I'm great actually."

Alex stands up and dusts off and motions for Tim to follow him, leading him back behind the building that houses the electrical substation for the hospital. It's full sun behind, no wind, perfect. He sits again on the grass and feels the day melting. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a thin box, wrapped, hands it up to Tim.

"Happy Birthday," he says.

"It's not my birthday."

"I know. You missed it. You weren't talking on your birthday."

Tim takes the gift, sits next to Alex but doesn't open it. Alex doesn't seem to care, he sets the folder he's been holding beside him, reaches into a different pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. He opens it and takes one, offers one to Tim who shakes his head, watching curiously. Alex lights up with a flourish.

"I've quit quitting."

"Uh-huh. You're just figuring that out, huh? Good for you."

"Yep. Good for me. Open your present. You'll be happy. You were right about me."

It's a flask, leather and silver; it slurps and slops when Tim shakes it. He grins over at Alex, opens it and sniffs it cautiously. It's whiskey – there's no mistaking it. "Are you giving up on me?"

"Nope, quite the opposite." Alex moves the folder between them and opens it and points to the sheet on top. "Your release report – signed by me. I promise you, it'll satisfy the people at the Marshals Service…and then some. You can read it, but I'll give you the highlights. It says I'm completely confident that you are ready to work again in the full capacity of a Deputy US Marshal, that you approached your treatment willingly and put admirable effort into your recovery, that I don't foresee a recurrence of the symptoms that presented following the incident that instigated your admittance into my care."

"Is that cigarette laced with something?"

"No."

Tim frowns, looks back at the sheet of paper, touches it. "You're serious."

"Yeah. Don't you feel ready to get back to it?"

The frown is still there.

"Tim?"

Tim looks carefully at the flask – there's an inscription: _Get a life._ Tim chuckles. "I can't believe I've been waiting for you to tell me."

"Me neither. You must be pretty stupid."

"Christ, you've developed an attitude."

"Between you and Bridget, uh...Dr. van Campen, I haven't had much choice." He holds up the cigarette pack. "You sure you don't want one?"

"Got my own vice, thanks," says Tim, jiggles the flask, but he tucks it away unopened.

* * *

Tim celebrates alone later in his room sitting quietly by the window, sipping at his birthday present. Alex has splurged – it tastes like a good batch. He's just waiting for some papers, someone to tell him he's free to go, his stuff packed and waiting in a duffel bag by the door.

A voice in the hall makes him sit up. He screws the lid tightly on his flask and sneaks it into the pocket of his hoodie, then listens, pretty sure it's Jesse. Someone's with him.

"Hey, Tim," he calls from outside the room, strolls in with Art Mullen in tow. "I found you a ride."

Tim stands up. "Hey, Art. What're you doing here?"

"I came to beg them to keep you longer but apparently they already signed off on you. I hated to waste the trip so I offered to give you a lift. Are you ready to go?"

"Yeah, I'm ready. I was ready weeks ago."

"I wasn't. Do you think they'd take Raylan in here for a while?"

They stand awkwardly a moment, all the ready one-liners used up. Jesse rescues them, steps between and waves an envelope. "Papers, reports, other shit."

Tim takes it. Jesse pulls him into a hug.

"You got my phone number?"

"I got your phone number. I'll see what I can do."

"Even if she says no, you and me should have a beer. You can admire how good a brother can look when he's not in hospital whites. Not that I don't look good in white."

"You look like a sterile pimp."

"You look like a Ranger." Jesse slaps a thigh. "Ow, burn. Win!"

"I'll use my best Ranger charms when I describe what a wonderful guy you are to Rachel."

"Shit, fucked that up, didn't I?"

Tim smiles. "I'll call you."

"You do that."

It's a quiet walk to Art's car. They settle in.

"You good?"

Tim looks over. "I'm good. Are you good…with this?"

"Christ, Tim, of course I am. It'll be nice to have you back."

"Yeah." It's going to take awhile, Tim thinks, to get a rhythm going again, but he's got nothing to lose. "Good to have my life back. Thanks for the ride."

"Uh, I know you'd probably just like to get to your apartment, but..."

"Drinks?"

"Most of the gang's waiting."

"Well, I could probably use a drink. Let's get it over with."

"Okay then." Art brightens a little. "And I don't think you'll have to pay tonight."

"Raylan owes me anyway."

"He can buy you two."

"He owes me more than two."

"How many more?"

"More than I could drink right now, I think. I'm out of practice."

"Not much from what I've heard."

* * *

 


	34. Chapter 34

* * *

The door to Bridget's office is closed. Alex frowns, veers to pass by a window in the hall and looks outside. Bridget's bicycle is chained up below and waiting, and that means she's still here in the hospital, somewhere. He knows her routine and he knows she never books a session this late in the afternoon. He doesn't slow down, barges right in, wants to give her an idea of how it feels when she does it to him, hopes to catch her reading her celebrity magazines. There's a lightness he hasn't felt in a while and he attributes it to his good-bye to Tim, a success. And he's feeling playful. He's already halfway into the room, looking around, cheeky, when he sees that Bridget has company. Michelle is there, Michelle from accounting, Michelle who always smiles shyly when Bridget walks past. She's leaning against Bridget's desk, a furious flush on her cheeks, and Bridget is standing close, her slim fingers woven with Michelle's. Alex stares for a second, then he grins, embarrassed.

"Hey, Michelle, it's uh…good to see you again. How are things?"

Bridget untangles her fingers and puts her hands firmly onto her hips with a pointed look in Alex's direction.

Michelle straightens up, brushes stray strands of hair back from her face and looks over at Alex too, a surprised and awkward smile. "Oh, you know…" She coughs and it turns into a small laugh. "I'm great, thanks, um… I was just leaving." She hurries across the room. "See you later?" she says quietly to Bridget, turning at the door.

"My place." Bridget watches her until she's gone, until the door closes behind her, then she flashes a glare at Alex. "Truly impeccable timing. You managed to pick the worst possible day to quit knocking."

Alex mumbles a sorry, but he's still grinning.

It's comically dramatic, the way Bridget reacts, a loud sigh and she drops with a graceful thud down into her chair, demonstratively grabbing a magazine as she goes. She starts turning pages forcefully.

Alex is over his embarrassment, amused now, takes a stroll around the room, picks up a book by her desk, flips through it but keeps his eyes on her, puts it back down again. "I, uh…I came to tell you I'm taking some time off. I just cleared it with Frank. Two weeks."

She doesn't look up but her eyebrows have shifted into a slightly less vindictive curve. "Tim's gone?"

"Yep, earlier today."

"I'm happy for him. And you're going to San Diego."

It's a deduction, not a question. Alex is half annoyed that she's not giving him the opportunity to tell her something she doesn't already know. He sits down opposite her, in the chair facing the door.

She knows she's pissed him off and pushes the point to get back at him. _"'There is a great deal of pain in life and perhaps the only pain that can be avoided is the pain that comes from trying to avoid pain.'"_

"You're quoting Laing."

"Very good." She sets down the magazine to clap her hands.

"You know, everyone now thinks he suffered from a mental disorder."

"He was just rigorously proving his hypotheses."

Alex can't argue with her circular logic, but he enjoys it, and smiles and gets past being pissy and gets to the real point of his visit. "Bridget, do you ever keep in touch with any of your patients – you know, after?"

"Why?"

"No reason." He dodges her penetrating look.

"Sure, I do – in a way."

"In a way… In a way like _friends?"_

She stands and walks over, grabs his chin and tilts his head up. She looks older than he's ever seen her look, though maybe he's just never looked past the mind working. He rolls his eyes to cover up his discovery.

When she backs off, she says, "It's a razor sharp edge to walk, Alex." Ruffles his hair.

"Yes, I know. I get that."

"If you find that you can't let go, Junior, you might want to ask yourself why and what you're holding on for."

He can feel her studying his face but it doesn't make him feel transparent, quite the opposite really. He feels solid. He trusts her judgement, but he realizes that he trusts his own too.

She gives it a few seconds then she sits back down, looking at him more softly, fondness in the lines around her eyes. "You are allowed to get something out of it too. In fact, I recommend it, or else this job will eat you alive."

"I'm proud of how well he's doing," he says.

"You should be. It's a partnership."

They sit quietly for a while, Bridget giving him space, Alex lost in thought. It's comfortable. He's almost sorry when she speaks again.

"So you've decided to talk to your father. That's a good thing, Alex. It'll be good for you to sort things out and get some closure. You'll come back with less baggage, so take a small suitcase – light as a feather, I'll bet, and tanned."

"Piss off."

She smiles and gives him another scorchingly fond look. "I mean it. It's good that you're going."

"You'll miss me."

"No, I won't." She gives herself away looking at the door. "I'll be busy enough."

"So…things are going well with Michelle?"

"None of your business." This time her smile is brilliant and blinding.

"I'll be back to barge in on your life before you know it though, so don't get complacent."

"You take your time, Junior. Say hi to the Pacific for me. I've never seen it."

* * *

Tim waves Art off at the curb, three bourbons in and feeling it. He's out of practice. He heads to his apartment with his stuff, his life in a bag, takes the stairs, runs them to the top and is hopelessly out of breath at his floor and angry about it. Tomorrow morning, he decides, starts off with a run, a fucking sweating exhausting run, then, despite Art's suggestion to take it easy until next week, he's heading into the office. He's going to sit at his desk and work, dig through warrants, volunteer for anything, and hopefully, hopefully someone will ask him to ride with them. Hopefully, someone will want his gun along.

He wanders into his room and changes and then wanders out again to the open main area, starts some coffee and stops before turning it on, pours himself a glass of water and opens his lockboxes, all three, and begins the routine of cleaning his handguns. The familiar rhythm of it is both comforting and disturbing. He thinks about something that Dr. van Campen said to him when she met him at the door of the hospital, she arriving, he leaving, officially this time.

"Hopefully this will be the last time you skulk out these doors." There was a smile to go with the teasing. "Get on with it," she said, shaking his hand. _"'True guilt is guilt at the obligation one owes to oneself to be oneself. False guilt is guilt felt at not being what other people feel one ought to be or assume that one is.'"_

Tim introduced her to Art then, bought himself some time to think about what she said. He got it finally, sitting in the bar later. He grinned.

"You look fucking crazy," said Raylan, "smiling like that."

"I think I am fucking crazy."

"I'll drink to that."

* * *

_000_

They drop off the back of a helo into the dark, too long a walk tonight, so they get a lift in closer, cover the last few kilometers on foot. The snipers and sixty-gunners settle into position and the rest move into the village. He's on the radio, heading toward a corner that's his to watch, leading a fire team that's been tasked with supporting the breaching team. There's been a lot of activity in this area the past six weeks and they've had countless missions into countless villages. It's starting to blur. But this week has been oddly quiet. Everyone's a bit edgy because none of them trusts quiet. There's a calm that envelopes him when he's engaging the enemy, a calm that eludes him while he's waiting for action, anticipating it. He's undecided which feeling he likes better, that calm or the tension that precedes it.

He thinks back to the talk in the helo on the way in. "It's been fucking quiet," some idiotic, pimple-faced, newb private said, "It's been really fucking quiet, don't y'all think?" And a collective groan followed.

"Shut up," another voice, a more experienced voice snapped, exasperated. "You fuck-tard. You fucking jinxed us, you fucking idiot."

And another voice, taunting, "Muj is probably gonna sneak up your ass tonight, sweetpea – better have a condom ready for him."

Laughter in appreciation of the joke – quiet, tense, and tired.

He grins, remembering, sets up his team and they wait. ROE tonight is the same as every night, they're cleared hot, discretionary, know where your buddies are. There's nothing though – a fat lot of nothing. And that's okay. He's been at it long enough now he's learned to appreciate a fat lot of nothing. Just then his radio barks, voices through the headset, someone has sighted first contact.

" _Movement one block north. Group of three."_

" _Another group of three, same block, one east, moving with a purpose."_

He hears one of the snipers confirm, _"I got eyes on the first."_

The other sniper follows. _"On the second."_

 _That'll be me,_ he thinks, _next rotation in._ He's already picturing himself behind the sniper's scope, solidly confident that he'll get through the Special Forces sniper school. He was told by his platoon leader just a few hours earlier, before the mission briefing, that he's to report to the sniper platoon when they arrive back at Fort Lewis, after they finish this combat rotation and ship home tomorrow. He can't wait. He's been at the range every spare moment keeping up his marksmanship, scoring expert, hoping. He wants this. He likes rifles. Going from the M4 to the M24 suits him from his trigger finger down to his boots.

" _RPG with the second group. I got an RPG west of the target 'bout five hundred meters. I've lost them behind a building. Anyone down there have a visual?"_

It's on their block, their side. He turns and taps his man looking that way. Anything? A head shake. Tim settles his rifle against his cheek and peers through the scope, scanning the buildings one by one, moving farther and farther up the street. There's something. Another tap and he indicates the range – then they've both get a visual at the same moment, movement, three men.

He watches them carefully. There has to be some sign of intent so he can engage, a rifle, even an angry gesture would do out here in no man's land. The RPG that the one guy is trying to hide in the folds of his kameez is a red cape for a bull; there's no questioning what's on his mind. Tim identifies it, reports he's got the missing enemy in view. The man ducks into a doorway, feeling invincible in the dark, tucked away in the nighttime shadows. He thinks he's invisible to his enemy, the Rangers, and he lifts his RPG to his shoulder and aims down the street. For Tim though, he's a clear target through the night vision.

It's a long shot for the M4 but Tim knows his weapon, he knows there's nothing he does better than this. He puts the bullet through the man's head and watches, another shot already lined up, as the man falls backward through the doorway, finger on the trigger pulling the instant he dies. The impact with the ground finishes the action and the grenade fires up and back. It explodes inside the building.

"Shit, you got him. Fuck, his fucking grenade went off in the building. Man, if your bullet didn't kill him, the fucker's own weapon did." The Ranger next to him is passing out encouragement while he continues to watch up the street. No need for whispers now. A grenade in the middle of the night is a paid public announcement of trouble, and somebody up the street has definitely paid.

There's a smattering of automatic rifle fire then – the remaining Taliban are engaging. The second sniper team picks off a guy on a roof as Tim and his team fire on the remaining two on the street. It starts fast, ends fast.

 _"Rangers, eight; Taliban, zero!"_ a voice says in the radio as Tim walks cautiously up the street he was watching earlier, clearing the block while the lead team brings out their mission target, some fuck that somebody deemed high-value. The helos are inbound; he can hear them getting close, the thud, thud, thud of a ride home. He steps through the doorway where his enemy fell. He's curious. The dust is still hanging in the air, drifting lightly. He's stepping on debris, bits of concrete, over a pair of legs. He can hear sobbing, that's his first sense of the scene, then he sees the destruction. There's more than one dead inside. The place isn't empty; it's a school, or a makeshift school, an orphanage maybe, beds and desks. The RPG has taken out most of a side wall and the man that Tim shot is lying where he fell – no one could identify him from what's left, not even his mother. No need for a dead-check, he's dead alright. His eyes move past, then stop, riveted on the next body, a small boy, a small bare foot. He's so skinny.

Tim flicks his eyes away, goes cold, takes in the rest of the room, a cursory inspection for threats, then he turns and walks out. He doesn't look any closer at the others. There's more carnage, but there's always carnage. He rejoins his team and they backtrack out of the village and climb into a helo and head to base. They're tired, start to come down from the high, and they let themselves relax finally. Whatever…they're going home tomorrow. That was his last mission this deployment and he's done, exhausted, running on a memory of fumes. He plans on sleeping on the way back to the airfield and then sleeping some more on the plane back to Germany, and then some drinking is in order to celebrate his new job, and then a trip home to Alabama. He's looking forward to telling his mom about becoming a sniper when he goes to see her on block leave, just to see her happy, even if it is for him, not her.

_000_

* * *

**\- The End -**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for reading. This isn't exactly your normal fanfic, more of an investment to read than should be posted on this site. We want you to know that we know this and appreciate your time. Our sincerest apologies to any actual US Army Rangers or psychiatrists or psychiatric nurses that might be reading this. (Hopefully there aren't any.) Accuracy doesn't always make a good story, but we tried to keep it within certain boundaries, sort of, almost, well...
> 
> As for any actual US Marshals, no apologies for you. The show takes such liberties with your careers that we feel safe hiding behind the misdemeanors already being perpetrated by F/X and their writing staff.
> 
> Bridget quotes R.D. Laing again to Tim when he's leaving the hospital. Interesting fellow, that.


End file.
